Battle Royale: British Juvenile Reform Bill
by anbyrobanby
Summary: Near-future London, and the rates of juvenile delinquency have clashed with civil unrest and political distrophy, and forced the murderous Battle Royale Bill through Parliament! This examines the lives and events of one set of students in such a game.
1. Three Days' Time

Neil Davey entered the room and strode to the desk at the front. A skinny, balding man of about forty-five, he put his folders on the desk at the front and addressed the class.

"As you all know, the school have given permission for the trip to Normandy this Easter. Therefore, can I ask for your permission slips in as soon as possible, please?"

Natasha Timbershire blinked and sat squarely on her chair. Being quite organised, she had already handed her form in. Indeed, she saw with a slight waft of satisfaction that her French teacher was waving her form as an example; she recognised the large, loopy signature at the bottom.

The teacher continued: "Of course, we will have to book the plane tickets soon, so if you want to come on this trip, you'll need to hand it in to me personally. If anybody has any trouble with getting the deposit in, there's a contact number on the letter for the school office."

At this point, John Trent sat up slightly and smirked arrogantly across the room at Hope Castle, Hope, a short black girl with her hair in tight braids was often a victim of certain snide remarks from her classmates about her parents' unemployment. Yet, John reflected, their situation is far from uncommon. So many people these days were out of work. Just last night, in fact, he had seen on the news that almost one in six adults were unemployed, living impoverishly on whatever small amounts of money they could receive from the government. There were several reasons for this. Some were simply made redundant when various organisations had to reduce their work forces to stay afloat. Other, smaller businesses (such as Hope's father's shop) simply folded through lack of demand, crippling their owners with massive debts. Frighteningly, though, the largest proportion of people out of work were like that because they simply couldn't be bothered. The apathy was infectious, like a plague drifting from neighbourhood to neighbourhood, consuming its inhabitants in a hopeless ennui. Hope, however, did not seem to notice her spiteful classmate staring at her, and John, his starved, wolf-like features dulled slightly with the emotion of a wasted joke, consoled himself by reverting his attention to ogling Melissa Williams' backside.

Mr Davey's voice swam suddenly seemed to become crisper. "Now, I'm not going to be in next week, and we need to book the tickets by next Sunday at the latest. I'm will be here to invigilate your exam on Monday afternoon, but after that I'm away. So you will all have to get yourselves sorted in three days' time," he held up three long, skeletal fingers, and waved them slightly. "So you might want to let the rest of your classmates know, if you're going to hear from them, please!"

With this, the man's palm slammed visciously on the oak desk with a loud bang. The eight students of 11D present jolted to attention. William Hutchinson jerked upright. He had been doodling absent-mindedly on a scrap piece of paper with a felt-tip pen, not really caring about staying within the dimensions of the paper. At least he had bothered to turn up, Will thought to himself. He hated when people had a go at him for no real reason; even general comments like that hit him personally. He could not even remember seeing everyone in his class at school at the same time. Again, he reflected, this was commonplace. Truancy, like unemployment was at an all-time high. It seemed like that the young people had lost faith in society's structure, and didn't care about their own futures. So many of them didn't see the point. One boy in this class (though, indeed, they were in fact two classes rolled into one; 11M had merged with the former 11D when Mrs Murphy went into long-term absence), Robert Fraser, had not been to school since October, and was rumoured to have gotten a job as a mechanic somewhere. Again, this was a common tactic.

Next to Will Hutchinson, Kavinder Khanum licked her lips and looked determinedly at her teacher. She was unlike most of her classmates. She was one of the few people who turned up on a regular basis. Some just came to try and fill the erstwhile gap in their lives, while others sought refuge from their families here. Kavinder was unlike most of her classmates. She came because she wanted to come. The way she saw it, things were never going to get better unless she took a stance and worked for a better tomorrow. She was determined, and held the man at the front of the room with reverence. How brave, she thought, how brave he was to come in every day in spite of everything that had happened to him! She looked at this man, her form tutor, her French teacher, with awe.

Mr Davey foraged through his papers, keeping his eyes focused firmly at the floor. He reflected that it had perhaps been stupid for him to have said that remark. But he couldn't help it. He had graduated from Cambridge with a masters in French literature, and worked in Rouen for nearly eight years. When circumstances forced him to return to Britain, society's structure was still in tact. He enrolled on a teacher training course, where he met a woman, Tina. A year or two later, they married and moved in together in a duplex in London. Tina got a job teaching history in St. Matthew's school in Chiswick, while Neil found a post at White Hill Comprehensive, in Wanstead. This was the way their lives continued for around seven years, until Tina, weary of travelling across the city to her workplace, and now fearing the commute, agreed to take up a vacant position at her husband's school.

One cold, rainy day in a December three years later, Tina Davey walked into the mauve-painted history classroom to the year eight class she had been teaching for the past fifty minutes. She had just been to the staff room to photocopy some sheets for their homework: an essay for the Christmas break, somethig to make the holidays more stressful. Walking back in, she noticed how quiet class 8R were. Slightly unnerved, she caught the smirk on the face of an otherwise-quiet boy called Luke. Furrowing her brow, Mrs Davey placed her papers on the desk, and saw her bag had been tipped over. On closer inspection, she saw it only contained paperwork. Her pills had been stolen, her keys were gone, and, most importantly, so was her money and her bank cards. Numb with astonishment, she leaned forward, making eye-contact with the boy Luke, but before she had a chance to say anything, she felt a sharp sting in her leg. Looking down, she noticed with horror that somebody had taped a hypodermic needle to the inside of her desk. She shrieked with mingled pain and fear, and on wrenching the hazardous thing out of her thigh, she heard the door slam, and saw that at least three students had run from the room. She could not go and find out who they were. There was too much pain. There was too much shame. Moments afterward, another two boys took it upon themselves to leave the session, then another, then a couple of girls. The other assorted twelve- and thirteen-year-olds filled the room with an electric silence while their teacher whimpered at the front of the room, trying to stem the steady bleeding with the cloth of her handkerchief. By the time the bell went, the remaining students had made one thing clear: they were in control of the lessons now.

Tina never returned to work after this episode. Although a doctor's inspection revealed she had not been infected by the needle, any thought of that school made her feel anxious and distressed. Which included her husband. Their marriage was never the same after that; their sex life stopped, and arguments escalated fiercely. The following April, one week after their eleventh anniversary, Neil and Tina divorced, desperate, with little money, no children, and spent emotions.

Yet after the incident with their former history teacher, instead of growing remorseful, 8R became increasingly aggressive and disruptive. The evil power emanating from the pack of children was so great it infected other classes around them. Another Year Eight class, 8K, were the first to join in; one group of girls scalding a girl in the year below with a pot of hot water. Between them, these two classes forced two teachers and almost a dozen students to flee the school within twelve months. Whether it was just conformity or inspiration, other people and cliques, gangs and factions, followed the ways of their Year Eight peers. It was a war of dares, a way to see who was prepared to go the furthest. Stories became playground rumours, playground rumours became classroom gossip, until it became difficult to distinguish the true incidents from the fabrications, exaggerations and lies, though nobody cared; the fear and notoriety of the school in itself was sufficient.

Time passes. The older students have left the school, Class 8R have become 11M, who in turn melded with class 11D, who three years beforehand had been 8K. It is January. An examination is in a few days' time, but just a handful of the students supposed to take it are in attendance. Mr Davey scanned the students in front of him with a masked dislike. They had quietened down a lot this year, he thought, those that bothered to attend were not making life difficult for others.

This was soon to change. That June, this entire year group would be attaining a smattering of mediocre GCSEs among them, and leaving White Hill School. It was almost possible to hear the walls groaning with anticipation, waiting keenly to shed the burden of its most troublesome class. At times, when nobody from the class was around, hushed whispers from the students and staff buzzed excitement and relief. In balance, it was only ever a handful of pupils from the class who ever caused trouble, but it was an unspoken rule that if one person in 11D got wind of somebody's derogatory viewpoints, then soon word would spread and that person would spend the rest of the year looking over their shoulder, fearful of the inevitable consequences. Class 11D were proud. Some enmity existed between certain individuals, but on the whole they worked as a team, as a pack, to achieve common goals.

But at times it seemed that the five or so months remaining were too long. Mr Davey, for one, wished with all his heart that this class would just disappear sometimes. Shortly after the incident with the needle, Mr Davey launched a complaint to the governors on behalf of his wife. Their reply, as is typical of replies from superordinates, is that "they would look into the matter", which meant they weren't going to look into the matter at all. He remembered dimly that once, about four years or so before then, there was huge political and media outrage about some form of extreme control measures for the most unruly classes. Back then, a Bill was being passed through the Houses of Parliament regarding a measure that had proved somewhat successful in a handful of other countries: first Japan, then Italy, and then the United States, Brazil, some provinces of China and certain areas of eastern Europe followed suit. From what he could remember, the Bill involved students being set against one another, sometimes to the death. Understandably, there was uproar, the loudest protest from the tabloids, who between encouraging vigilante mobs outside the homes of suspected child molesters and showing softcore pornography featuring vacant-looking blondes with their ample bosoms bare, accused the government of returning to barbaric and draconian rule, and of exploiting the young and vunerable. Bullshit. Media hypocrisy aside, the argument raged on for several weeks, until a compromise seemed to be reached: the Bill would be altered to ensure that nobody died, that only a good scare was given. Unsurprisingly perhaps, the tabloids then complained about how the government were soft on juvenile delinquents. At any rate, a major national incident happened shortly after this, and the media shifted its attention away from this debate, and within a few months it was all but forgotten. At the time, Neil Davey had been disgusted by the thought of harming children, but after his wife was attacked, though the Bill was forgotten, its implications lived on in the teacher's darkest mental fantasies.

It was a few minutes into this French lesson in January when another two students came into the room. Martina Fennell came bumbling in, carrying a large paper bag in her hand. She held the door open and classmate David Vales entered the room. "Sorry we're late, sir, but" said David half-heartedly, and not even bothering to finish the excuse, he sat down on the back row, with Martina at the other end of the desk. Both of the new additions were smirking slightly, and everyone in the class spotted that, with the exception of boys Matthew Sherman and Thomas Clarke, who were talking animatedly to one another about their girlfriends in low voices, and Will Hutchinson, who had seemingly gotten bored of drawing circles on his paper and had turned round to listen to them. Everyone else, though was slightly suspicious about why their two classmates were grinning like they were. Usually people smiled like that for one of two reasons: sex or a private joke. Yet the facts were that David was gay and Martina was not really on excellent terms with him, so it must have been something else. Suddenly, detecting the fact that people were staring, David drew a poker face and looked at his teacher defiantly. Mr Davey mumbled a comment about David's poor excuse, then went back to teaching about irregular verbs. He wasn't too bothered about that pair, he reflected silently as he ran a cassette player for a textbook exercise. In respect to some of the other students, those two were quite tame. Granted, neither were great students, David was verbal and bitchy and Martina was temperamental and brooding, but neither of them had a reputation for being dangerous. Unlike others.  
For it was only a select few students who were truly dangerous to cross. Of all of them, Sean Sampson was the most terrifying. A tall, muscular boy with otherwise handome features, he had one of the most evil temperaments around. Not exactly a bully, so to speak, but it was usually a good rule of thumb to keep out of his way if he appeared pissed off for some reason. It was Sampson who was behind some of the most violent attacks in the school. Last year he had been accused of kicking a boy's knee against the joint for being cheeky, hospitalising the child. When one brave teacher tried to confront the older student, Sampson pulled a penknife out of his pocket and thrust the man against the wall. That teacher also left the school a few months later. Though he had recently gotten older and matured more, his nature of inspiring terror remained strong and unrivalled. He had recently found a girlfriend, Lena, who although not as much of an apparent psychopath, was just as unpleasant, and had a team of weaker girls, her 'bitches' so to speak, at her beck and command. Both of these two were originally in 11M, and it was thought by some that the two of them were behind Mrs Murphy's extended absence.  
Another girl to note was Samantha Carter, although this was for different reasons. If Sean Sampson was the brawn of the class' aggression, Sam could be likened to the brain. A quiet, pretty girl with short, sleek blonde hair, Sam was good at making plans and following through on them. Though not really friends with Sampson and his clique, it was not uncommon to find them muttering to one another in hushed voices on some topic. She was literate, she was knowledgeable, and she had a flair for internal politics. She was very organised, and often structured people's beliefs, being a talented orator and on the school debating team. She was one of those girls whom people either loved or hated.

Mr Davey personally loved her. He didn't love many of his charges, but she and a handful of others were people he thought as special; people whom he did not resent seeing, and did not make his flesh creep each time he saw their name on the register. Matt Sherman did, however, so it was partly this reason why Mr Davey confronted his student about why he was talking so loudly. "Why not?" Matt replied irritably. "It's not as if we're ever going to use this stuff, and being here is a waste of time as it is"  
"You don't have to be here if you don't want to," responded his teacher with equal irritation. Matt and his friend Tom Clarke did not want to be there, so they got up and left. Mr Davey worried about Tom. The shortest boy in the class, he had become increasingly angry all winter. His sharp profile and square-framed spectacles flashed maliciously back at his form tutor from under a roof of chaotic dark hair, then followed his friend out of the room. Matt Sherman didn't even bother looking back. He needs to listen more, thought the teacher; he never listens.

Though the class tried to continue as it had done before the interruption, it was a losing battle; they had gone from eight students to ten, then shortly afterward, back to eight once more. Soon, as was often the way with classes like this, there would be zero remaining. Depending on the teacher, the people showing up to lessons, and the subject material the school fought so valiantly to maintain, this happened sometimes. Other times there would be an almost eager will to work, with teachers making a show of the syllabus, while the students feigned genuine interest and piped up with questions and thoughts: the closest thing to real work that could ever be managed. This was not such a day. Being frank, Mr Davey admitted that there was no point in continuing the lesson. The hand-outs had been handed out (with the two belonging to Tom Clarke and Matt Sherman being abandoned on the desks), David and Kavinder had handed in their books for marking (a task that would take under an hour), and while a man was talking to Mr Davey (he had entered the room shortly after the two boys had left; though it was hard to be sure due to intermittent attendance, Hope Castle believed he was a part-time member of staff of some sort, though this was just an educated guess), the rest of 11D looked round at one another and in an unspoken agreement, filed out of the room.

"See you all in three days' time," Mr Davey muttered to himself.

Fifteen minutes later, Melissa, Martina and Hope were pacing across the open area near the canteen was. It was chilly and had been raining earlier that day, so the air was damp and oppressive. The three girls did not speak to each other. They were working together not out of choice so to speak, but because it was common sense to walk round the school in packs of no fewer than three. The fact that they were of class 11D made no difference; their reputation had fallen to memory and though it was not faint, there were younger generations of pupils who saw what had transpired, and were determined not to disappoint. As Hope slipped over in some mud slightly, Martina giggled. Confused, Melissa asked her classmate what was so funny.  
"Yeah, Martina," added Hope, dragging her shoe in the grass to clean it. "It wasn't that funny"  
"I know, I know," replied Martina with a wicked smile. "You just reminded me of something David did earlier"  
"What was that"  
"Yeah, I wondered why you two came in late," Melissa added with extra confusion.  
Martina chuckled again. Again, Melissa was surprised. Martina was not the sort of person to laugh at the misfortune at others. A member of the gymnastics team, and involved in the school drama society, she was a hard-working student and honest person, even though here grades were not excellent. This is why Melissa was surprised by the cackle that came out of her friend's mouth when she confessed that she and David had put trip wire at the top of a flight of stairs. It was Hope who was the first to regain her composure: "Why"  
"Well you know that whenever we need to go up to Room 12 for geography, that mob of Year Sevens always run down the stairs in a massive ruck"  
"Well yeah, Mart, I know the ones you mean," said Melissa slowly. "The class that have got the tall kid with the curly hair"  
"Yeah, those ones. Well David managed to get access to a copy of their timetable last Thursday, and we've found out that they're in Room 12 today, for this lesson, in fact." The girls had stopped outside one of the buildings, a grubby white one that contained Rooms 1 to 26 in the near wing. Martina adjusted her shoulder-length black hair and continued carelessly. "David and I managed to find some wire, so we put it at the top of the staircase that's next to that classroom"  
On cue, the bell rang out from behind them. Like prisoners in a riot, the sound of stampeding feet and excited voices roared through the building. The three girls waited patiently. On cue, there was suddenly a loud amount of screaming and panic echoing from upstairs. Martina bounded forward, leading the way, and Hope and Melissa followed uncertainly.  
David Vales was already waiting. He and Natasha Timbershire were standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking in awe at the pile of bodies before them. It had worked like a dream, David reflected. He remembered the look on the face of one boy as his excited face turned to surprise when his foot was taken beneath him, and how it didn't have time to change to fear before it hit a lower step. The fat boy with the curly hair had also been at the front of the body of bodies; he instinctively grabbed out for the banister to break his fall, only to realise he was on the wrong side. His fingertips had scraped against the wall, and he tumbled down along with another boy and a girl running along with him. They were lemmings. David counted four, five people at the bottom of the pile, and probably as many again on top of them, whining and swearing in pain and surprise. The remaining students looked at one another uneasily, wondering if their teacher Mrs Wattkins was going to resolve the situation. It was a vain hope, of course. As the five hurt students came to their senses, the five fifteen-year-old students at the bottom of the staircase looked up with mingled triumph and awe.

"Serves you right for not obeying the one-way system," David said with a chuckle.


	2. The Storm Tomorrow

It was Sunday lunchtime and in just over twenty-four hours, Class 11D would be taking their maths exam. Though the government had opted not to overhaul the education system and introduce the international Baccalaureate like so many had believed, they had instead changed the way in which GCSEsGeneral Certificate for Secondary Educationwere executed and assessed. It was now obligatory to take exams for key subjects in January and the summer, and additional subjects were also in June and July. Though there was more flexibility with the way examinations worked (it was now possible to retake an exam in August if a student failed to take it, though if that was also missed the student would fail that subject and be subject to a fine), students in Year 11 still resented their studies. Therefore, while about half of 11D were saturating themselves in facts about trigonometry and algebra, the others who cared somewhat less, were undertaking other activities.

Emma Harris was doing the most intense study she could, as she watched a DVD with her cat curled on her lap. The most intelligent girl in the class in most subjects, Emma was not bothered at all by the impending examination. She knew already that she was going to pass. Confident yet girly, Emma had straight strawberry-blonde hair that sat prettily on her shoulders, pushed forward gently by a combination of the soft seat of the sofa and the pink hairband on top of her hair. The romantic comedy was making her chuckle, her perfect white teeth baring slightly. She loved Hugh Grant films, and this one in particular was one she had bought from a shop in Covent Garden the Friday before. It was amusing and light, the way she liked to live life. The black cat stretched silently at this point, and flexed its claws gently against her heart. "Miles," she muttered as she readjusted herself so the cat's claws didn't stings quite as much. Her mobile phone chimed in the next room, and getting up reluctantly, she went to answer the call. It was a text from one of her friends, Paula MacNeill, inviting her to see a film the following Wednesday afternoon. One of the burdens of being popular, Emma reflected, was that it always left her short of cash. This wasn't a problem at the moment, though: Christmas had just passed, and she had received enough money to tide her over for a while. She knew that Paula and another friend, another Emma, Emma Newton, had been organising this event since before Christmas, and although wary of the location, she replied with a message of assent, convinced that it was going to be a blast.

There is a belief that whenever any action occurs, its exact opposite also happens somewhere else in the world. As it happens, a young Jitinder Singh was shaking his head at that very same time.  
"I just told you, dad, I have this exam tomorrow afternoon and I need to study for it! I'm not confident enough on the subject matter"  
"And whose fault is that, eh?" Jitinder's father retorted. A man of nearly sixty, he looked at his youngest child with apparent dislike. "You must come back to work now! You've had your lunch break and it's about time you relieved Seema"  
Jitinder was hunched in the back of his father's coffee shop with his maths book in his hand. It was astonishing how selfish that man could be sometimes, he reflected. How can he say I don't try hard enough? He resented this side of his dad. Of course he loved him, but Jitinder always had the feeling that nothing he did would ever be enough to make his father happy. His sister, Seema, had recently returned from a gap year in Africa, and was about to start her degree in nursing at the University of Central London. She had always been a model student and naturally bright. Their brother, Raj, was similar. He had earned a job as an accountant and was now working in Cardiff, apparently very successful. What stung Jitinder most was that he felt he was more intelligent than his brother had been at that age, fifteen, yet because he was older, he was better. A lousy tradition.  
"Don't look at me like that," his father bellowed, his skin turning slightly purple which clashed oddly with the turban on his head. "Don't play your face like that, when you could have paced that revision instead of leaving it until the last minute! Now go out and help your sister"  
Deciding that there was no more point in pursuing the matter, Jitinder complied with a poker facehis father was fuelled up now; best not give him any further reason to argueand went to see his sister.  
The café was always busy in January for some reason. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that people wanted to escape from their poorly-lit offices and homes, brace the coldness for a while, and curl up inside a cosy shop with a cappucchino and a muffin. His sister was waiting for him.  
"Hi, Jit," she began, with a slight look of concern on her face. "Was dad in one of his moods again"  
"What d'you reckon?" her brother replied sulkily.  
"Well, if it's any consolation, I'm not going anywhere for a while, and I could try and help you with stuff if you'd like"  
"How? My book's in the back, and I don't know how I can get it without dad noticing," Jitinder said, before twisting round to serve a new customer.  
Seema paused until the man's order had been given, then continued. "If you like, I could always go in the back myself and get it for you.  
Her brother smiled, thankful towards his sister. "Thanks, but no," he muttered. "If he sees you getting it, then you'll be in the dog house as well. That's two pounds ten, please," he finished turning to the customer.  
Seema blinked acceptingly, and headed over to collect some discarded cups from a table. Jitinder admired his sister. She was fair and honest, yet liked to stand up for what she believed was right, and defended the underdog whenever she could. He really hoped he could be like his sister; standing up for himself, though sometimes futile, was a good habit to get into. Sadly, he didn't believe he possessed the mental strength to do that. His mind wandered to his brother, Raj. It was amazing that while he himself was toiling in a shop, his brother was receiving preferential treatment, even though he only ever came to visit his parents whenever he needed to, or at Christmas. "Jit?" His sister's voice brought him to his senses.  
"Yeah"  
"Quit daydreaming and serve the next customers"  
Seema chuckled slightly at her brother and proceeded to take the china to the sink. Jitinder returned to the desk, recognised the faces of his next two customers, and smiled.

Several miles away, Paula MacNeill received a message from her friend Emma Harris, who said she was indeed interesting in their party. With a slight, but unmistakable "whoop!", Paula bounced into the kitchen, where she was greeted by her father, whose pot belly was sticking out grotesquely from the bottom of his t-shirt and hanging over his boxer shorts.  
"Ew, dad, put it away," Paula cringed as her father reached up to get a mug from the top shelf.  
Her father, a portly man with dark hair and a soft face similar to his daughter's, threw the comment away with a snort. "You sound happy," he asked impassively. "What's the good news"  
"I just got a text from Emma," began the daughter, "who said she's going to come to the party we're organising"  
"Which Emma"  
"Oh, Harris," clarified Paula quickly, and with an air of recognition. "The other Emma's helping me"  
The man smiled at his daughter, who had placed the phone on top of the microwave. She wasn't pretty, but her untidy, dull blonde hair and spectacles made Paula bear a striking resemblance to her mother. His first wife. Richard MacNeill's first wife, Carol, was tall and businesslike. Yet, it transpired that she had been cheating on her husband with another man, somebody whom he did not know. The affair only came to light when it was apparent that vast amounts of money from their joint savings had been swallowed somehow. Carol tried lying to protect herself, and her daughter, who at the time was aged eleven. But ultimately, Carol MacNeill put her own interests before those of her family. Though she walked out on her husband months later, she was soon wanted by the police. More dark secrets emerged: Carol had been taking money from her company to bolster her new lifestyle; Carol had lied to her new man, pretending she was unmarried and childless; Carol was forging her husband's signature to get more money. All the way, it was about what Carol had done, what Carol had done, what Carol had done. It was inevitable that the couple divorced, yet even so they would be parted shortly afterward; The woman's financial deceptions earned her a court summons, and eventually a short prison sentence.  
At the time, Paula, young, gangling, and slightly myopic was in her first year at White Hill School. When her school friends found out about her home situation (for these things always leak out to some extent), the teasing began. The meaner children saw fit to mock her for having a criminal for a mother. Though time passed and the fuss about Carol MacNeill died down, the bullies switched their attentions to other aspects of Paula's persona. When her eyesight was poor, they mocked her for being blind. When she finally was prescribed glasses, she was taunted as being a four-eyed freckled freak. The harder she was bullied, the more her grades suffered. The more her grades suffered, the more she was bullied for being thick. She couldn't escape from the vicious circle. Feeling increasingly frantic, she started to attach to another girl, Lydia Fletcher, whom the bullies jeered for being overweight. This didn't help either; they were now just a pair of freaks, of misfits, who stuck together because nobody else wanted them.  
A couple of years passed and Paula was thirteen. The students were Year Nines. Though the bullying had abated somewhat in favour of terrorising the school, Paula and Lydia were still outcasts from their own class. Lena Amornie, a tall girl with black hair and a fierce profile, frequently tried to play them off one another, but to no avail, until one evening in November. Parents' Evening. The Amornies and the MacNeills were in line, both waiting to talk to the same teacher. All it took was a whispered word and a snide glance from Lena for chaos to break loose. Though the events themselves were a blur, Lena left with a bleeding lip, and Paula was suspended until the end of term. Bitter at the teachers, at her father too (who lectured her when they got home), she vowed to change, to stand up for herself, when she returned to school in January.

Paula was reflecting about these events whilst filling up a glass of water. She had changed, she felt, when she returned. The bullying stopped, and she was a lot more resilient. A good thing, too: during her suspension, Paula's friend, Lydia Fletcher, was turned by Lena Amornie, and joined the ranks of the mean girls. There was no resent about this betrayal from Paula's part. She knew that Lydia was just doing it to protect herself; a wise tactic, even if it meant she would be in Lena's pocket indefinitely. At any rate, Paula had moved on from these times now, she felt.  
"Are you listening to me"  
Paula was brought out of her dreamlike trance by the sound of her dad's voice. The glass in her hand was overfilling with water, which was rising steadily in the basin. Her father smiled and passed his empty side-plate across, with a few greasy smears and breadcrumbs on it.  
"Could you wash that up for me, darling? Cheers"  
Paula nodded and rinsed the plate. She would do anything for her father. Except kill, perhaps. But when was that ever going to be an issue? Moments after getting her hands wet, her mobile phone rang again. Drying her hands down her front, she took the phone from on top of the microwave where she had placed it, and spoke to Emma Newton.

As Paula MacNeill washed up, Dominic Thomas was drying off. He had just had a shower, and was about to head into London city centre to meet a few friends. In the back of his mind, a voice was nagging at him to do revision, but right now, he had to meet up with these people. A stocky boy with blond hair and ample adolescent chin fluff, he was quite fearsome in appearance, though if one met him and spoke to him, it would be obvious how that is not the case at all. Though quite timid and introverted, he was known for having a strong opinion on issues; he was a vegetarian and was actively involved in a smattering of political pressure groups. His older brother, the one person whom Dominic idoled above all, was calling him from downstairs. "Dom'nic," Josh Thomas called upstairs. "Are you going out now"  
"Yeah," replied the younger sibling, coming down the staircase in two-step bounds. "I'm gonna get a bite to eat then head out. Why"  
"I just wondered if you could pick up the papers while you're out"  
Joshua Thomas was twenty-two years old. He was studying politics and law at university, and was halfway through his final year. At present, he was on the Internet looking for information on how capital punishment affected the families of the condemned. Dominic looked over his brother's shoulder and smiled when he saw what was on the screen. He was glad that they lived in Britain, he thought; the death penalty is illegal, and has been for some time now. He felt that, no matter quite how bad the world got, there would always be some resolve found in the sanity of the law. There was just one law that was frightening to him: and educational reform bill that was introduced several years ago. He did not know exactly what was involved, but to him it seemed tantamount to genocide. This was one of the causes he was interested in fighting, though at present he was tied down by other commitments. He looked over his brother's shoulder again, and noted that some notes about that bill had indeed been made, and another batch of students were due to be sanctioned at some point within the next few months. He thought nothing major about it. Right now, he had to get out of the house. As he entered the kitchen for an apple, he saw one of his cats sat lazily on the work surface. Shooing her off, he thought about the exam. Maths never was Dominic's strong point. While he was out, he felt he should discuss the test with his friends. Pulling his coat over him, he bade his brother farewell, and stepped out into the storm.

Jitinder Singh judged that he had a few minutes free, so he went and sat down with Stephanie Green and Sam Carter, who were huddled in the corner with their exercise books and a calculator. On the pretence of collecting a plate from the adjacent table, he asked them how they were. Steph looked at her classmate. A girl with black, coarse-looking hair, and rectangular-framed spectacles, she took her studies seriously. A school librarian, ambitious and well-read, she could find her way around a book like nobody else. She was the sort of girl who did not have too many friends, but those whom she did like were close and inseparable, like siblings. In her case though, this band of friends were mostly freaks. The most normal one was Sam Carter, who was currently chatting to Jitinder as he binned some litter. The only way to describe Sam was 'pretty'. Short and delicately built, she had a very girly demeanour about her, which clashed oddly with her aggressive short-temper. Jitinder smiled at Sam and replied to a question. Gazing into her eyes, he was always amazed by how pretty this girl was. He didn't love her, nor did he lust for her, but she was certainly one of the girls whom he would bend over backwards for to make happy. The opposite was true in his sentiments toward Steph; she was a bit of a freak, in his view.  
"How much revision have you done?" Steph asked her male classmate. "I can't get my head round some of these formulae"  
"Erm," Jitinder hesitated, and looked back at his sister, who was serving an elderly woman at the counter. "Let me come back to you"  
Seema Singh saw her brother approaching with dirty plates. She muttered into his ear: "Jit, Dad says he wants a newspaper, but we also could do with some bread for later. If I gave you some money, could you run over to the newsagents"  
Jitinder grimaced slightly at the irony of what was being asked of him. On one hand, his father was demanding the son to work and stop lazing around, yet under half an hour later, it seemed obvious that the father could not even be bothered to go down to the shops to get his own newspaper. Jitinder looked outside at the howling January rain and frowned. This was deliberate, he thought. He probably asked Seema to ask him, or at any rate, knew that the back would fall to him, Jitinder, to run the errand. "What's he doing over there?" Sam asked Steph.  
"Not sure," her friend replied. "But he's getting some money"  
"I'll be back soon," Jitinder said. "Will you stay here until I see you again"  
"Of course," replied Sam with a carefree smile glancing out at the now-heavy rainfall. "I'm not going far, am I, huh"  
"Saying that, though," interrupted Steph, "didn't they say the weather was going to get worse tomorrow"  
"Yeah, I heard that too," replied Sam, forgetting about the exam completely now, in favour of idle chit-chat. "There was going to be snow in Europe, and the storm tomorrow was said to probably cause serious damage in some parts of the country"  
"Jitinder!" Seema called from the other side of the room. "Are you going or not"  
Jitinder nodded briefly to his sister, again at the girls, then ran out into the storm.

Emma Newton was out in the storm, too, but was sheltered from the rain inside a bus stop. The rain was kept off her (though this made no difference; she was soaked through, and her hair was plastered across the sides of her head), yet the wind was blowing spray across the hem of her jeans and causing a piercing chill to rip through her chest. She had seen the weather report. It was Sunday now, and the storm tomorrow had been forecast to be even worse. She and Paula MacNeill were supposed to be meeting a man tomorrow evening to settle the location of the party. To make a change from the usual parties at people's homes, they had decided they would rent out a function room somewhere, and hold a huge party there. There was a financial issue here, so after quite a bit of research, the girls decided to go for a church hall in one of the poorer locales of the city, and to cover some of the cost by inviting the entire year, but charge a slight fee. The bus approached. Emma got up, wringing some of the wetness out of her favourite jacket. It was because of the weather that she was travelling to meet Paula now; they were supposed to be confirming the location tomorrow by giving the deposit, yet they wanted to postpone this exchange until later in the week (after all, they weren't stupid). Whenever Emma had a plan, people knew that it was often a good idea to listen to it, and question nothing. This was why Paula had agreed to meet her friend at such short notice. It was barely two o'clock, but the sky was dark and pessimistic.  
"Lisa! Lucy! What're you two doing on here"  
Emma had just boarded the bus and saw two of her classmates, Lisa Jones and Lucy Shale, sitting opposite one another in the aisle. The bus was nearly full, but there was a seat behind Lucy's bench. Lucy, a retiring mouse of a girl with brown hair and a pointed chin, smiled at Emma. Friends. "We were both heading out to meet Dominic, Kavinder and, er, Matt," said the girl, ill at ease with speaking in a vehicle full of strangers. "What about you; are you coming as well"  
"No, I'm off to meet with Paula"  
Lucy let out an 'ahh' of understanding; it was about the party. She herself had been invited, but was obliged to decline the offer. Her parents did not like her going out and partying at age fifteen. They were strict Catholics, and disliked the idea of their daughter doing anything wild. Lucy, not having the willpower to rebel, and knowing that it was ultimately for the greater good, complied with an air of disappointment. Though she was not evangelical in the slightest, and neither were her parents, she always followed what was expected from her, by God and family, and never caused trouble.  
The same could not be said for Lisa. Another of the students who rarely attended school, she was loud and bossy. With wavy, mousy hair, her bark was considerably worse than her bite; she was a complete pacifist, and even when she was in a towering rage, never resorted to violence.  
For several miles, the three girls sat without saying much to each other; though none of them hated each other, Lisa simply belonged to a different friendship circle, and it was only via Dominic as a mutual friend that she was connected to Lucy, and in turn, Emma and the others. Suddenly, the bus passed a garage, with several cars in it.  
"That's where Rob works, I think," Lisa said, pointing out of the window.  
Instinctively, Lucy turned to look out of the window. A number of the girls drooled over Robert Fraser, and Lucy was certainly no exception. A tall boy of sixteen with dark hair, hazel eyes, a pierced ear and an excellent physique, he was one of the boys who would get attention from any girl, if he ever turned up for school, or was remotely a pleasant person. Lucy had particular reason to want to see him; it had been rumoured that he had a crush on her, but was too busy playing his macho role. Anybody with sense could see that it would never work out between them; they were polar opposites. Robert was brash, a smoker, a stoner and had lost his virginity before he turned thirteen; Lucy was quiet, a non-smoker and mild asthmatic, and, of course, a virgin, believing in the old-fashioned concept of saving it for somebody who mattered. It wasn't until Emma asked the time that Lucy was brought back to her senses. "It's nearly ten past two now," she read out from her digital watch. "And it looks like the rain's stopping a bit"  
Indeed, as the girls looked out, the sky certainly seemed to be running out of rain, though it was still as dark as ever; when the three girls got off the bus and went their separate ways, they held their hands and coats over their heads, trying in vain to defend themselves from the howling elements that were drowning them slowly, and could inevitably soak anybody to the bone without prejudice. 


	3. In the Canteen

The first exam that 11D were to sit this January was mathematics, which itself was due to begin at half one that Monday afternoon.

It was noon. Adam Garretty was in the canteen with Thomas Billings and Sean Sampson, all of whom were swallowing a tepid school meal before the examination began. None of them bothered to revise for exams, and this had been no exception. The three of them were sitting at a table, jerking occasionally whenever a smaller pupil passed to see how easily scared they were. This was one of Sampson's favourite games, because it required no effort on his behalf, and the responses they got varied infinitely.  
A fat Year Seven boy with curly hair stumbled sideways and dropped his food on the floor when Adam crept behind him and bellowed in his ear, which caused the trio of boys to laugh hysterically as the eleven-year-old scampered away. There was never any doubting it; Sampson was the leader and Adam and Tom were his cronies. They had another couple of friends, Adrian Masters and Colin Nately, and the five of them made life hell for everybody who deserved it, plus a number who didn't, but looked too cocky.  
Sampson leaned back, and readjusting his blue school jumper, took a sip of water. An extremely tall boy with an athletic physique and green-grey eyes, he would be quite handsome, were he not a total thug. He used to box and play both tennis and rugby, but after a number of fights, he was banned from all school teams. He didn't care at all what people thought of him. Being aggressive gave him a rush of adrenaline, and being in charge gave him an extra boost of it. He was addicted to the rush: a true adrenaline junkie.  
People sometimes said that Sean Sampson didn't have friends, he had subordinates. This was certainly true for Tom Billings, and Adam, too. Even they called him by his second name, like an unspoken formality.  
Tom was one of Sean's minions, there was no doubt about that. They used to be on the tennis team together, until Sampson was forced to quit. If it were not for the bad influence from his friend, he could have gone far, but his worthy demeanour was utterly ruined by the company he kept.  
"D'you reckon Colin and Adrian are going to be here today?" Adam asked casually, only to receive a clip around the head from Sampson. Those two never liked each other, Tom thought as he looked at his two companions. They were only ever together beause he, himself, was always with them both.  
"Of course not," Sampson growled. "Are they ever here?" He looked over at the other boy with contempt and dark humour. Adam did not fit into Sampson's clique. The boy was square-faced with messy blonde hair which curled loosely at the top, already receeding slightly. He wore round-framed spectacles that did not suit the rest of his face. That boy had no value. He was nothing, a nobody, a person who complied with his peers out of obligation. Sampson, smart and resourceful, saw his comrade's weaknesses, and knew that he could discard Adam at any time, should he ever need to do so.

There was a whistle from the other side of the room. Harry Smith had spotted Melissa Williams leaving the queue with her plate full of food, and beckoned her over to where he and Ben Portwood were sitting. She scurried over to be with her boyfriend, and said a hurried 'hi' to Benjamin, whom she secretly hated. Melissa was one of the few people who did hate Ben, though; he was quite sensible and approachable. The two boys had been asking each other questions in preparation for the text that afternoon; they were last-minute crammers, and proud of it. "How's the revision going?" Melissa asked her companions.  
"Not bad, not great," Ben said truthfully. "I still can't get my head round geometry," Harry whined pathetically.  
"What's the problem with it?" asked his girlfriend.  
"Everything," Melissa's boyfriend continued. "I'm probably going to fail this exam. It'd serve me right I guess"  
"Oh, come on, lemme see what there is"  
And with that, Melissa stuffed some potatoes into her mouth and helped Harry with his work. Whilst she was pointing out how a formula involving internal angles to him, Harry reflected how lucky he was to be going out with Melissa. Indeed, she was possibly the best thing that had happened to him since his mother lost her job ten years ago. His father had abandoned his girlfriend when he discovered she was pregnant. Once her son had been born, Harry's mother had been forced to downsize her home and move to a smaller house in a poorer area of the city. Two weeks before his sixth birthday, his mother was made redundant; she had been one of the first casulties of the failing economy, though it was not recognised as a problem at the time. Hungry and poor, she had been forced to try whatever she could to earn money to feed her son, as her benefits were inadequate due to an administrative error. Approximately eighteen months later, his mother, an attractive woman in her late twenties, had found a lucrative source of income: one that could not be taxed by the government. Though at the time he did not understand exactly what his mother was doing, he knew it was not a good thing. Even now, he felt uncomfortable with the physical aspects of his relationship with Melissa, and in spite of her obvious beauty, he strongly wanted to wait for intimacy. Melissa herself didn't mind; she knew about his home situation, and respected his wishes.  
Ben felt isolated somwhat from their conversation. He was best friends with Harry, inseperable since they started at White Hill, and had nothing against Melissa, but a combination of Harry and Melissa's relationship and their current conversation made Ben feel a bit ostracised. Fortunately for him, though, another friend of his, a ginger-haired boy called James had entered the room, wearing his waterproof coat, and his bag over his shoulder. Apparently, he had just arrived. "Hey Benjy," he said to his friend, adding another, "hey," to the other couple, sat down by Ben and said, "have you seen over by the door"  
"No," replied his friend, deciding not to turn unless it was really worthwhile. "What's over by the door?"

"Soldiers."

Ben looked confused, as did Melissa and Harry, who had both looked at James when he had said this. The three of them whizzed round to the door, and, sure enough, there were two soldiers stationed there, one either side of the double doors, like sentries. Both were in identical khaki uniforms, and both men had similar glowers. The four students of 11D who were looking at the soldiers couldn't tell whether they were holding weapons; other students in the hall were forming a crowd around the pair, and it was impossible to distinguish.  
Melissa looked positively alarmed. "Why are they here"  
"Dunno," James shrugged. "I guess I could ask them"  
"Maybe they're here to give a talk to one of the classes or year groups or something," Harry hypothesised, his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion.  
Ben was watching the table commandeered by the staff. Mr Davey was there, his back to the soldiers. He was flanked by the Headmistress, Mrs Watkins, and an elderly art teacher called Mr Fletcher. The three of them seemed serenely unaware of the military presence in the room; at any rate, there were not paying the men any attention. The same could not be said for a few of the other teachers. Mr Quinn, an English teacher who was also a form tutor of another of the Year 11 classes, was muttering to a young, new teacher known as Mr Sharpe. Both teachers had their eyes fixed raptly on the soldiers; apparently, neither of them knew what was going on, as well. Mr Sharpe's suddenly noticed he was being looked at, and made eye contact with Ben at the other table, who averted his eyes immediately, feeling slightly ill-at-ease.  
"Jim," he asked his friend, "can you go and find out why they are here"  
"Sure thing"  
The red-haired boy stood up, leaving his coat and bag at the table with his classmates. Deciding quickly what he was going to say, he walked quickly towards the guards. James was only dimly aware of the tables around him. He was only dimly aware of the pupils walking around with assorted trays of food. He was completely unaware of Sean Sampson's leg, which swung out from nowhere and took his foot from underneath him. Yelling slightly, he sprawled forward across the shiny floor, landing his face expertly in the pile of food the Year Seven pupil with curly hair had lost in an earlier attack.  
There was a ripple of laughter in the room at James' misfortune; as he sat up, he glared malevolantly at Sampson, his face three shades of red. This look of fury was soon replaced with one of pain, as he winced and clutched his ankle. Seemingly it had been strained when he fell down. He sat up and massaged his foot, knowing that minor injuries don't get treated at the school any more, due to there being too many of them. With everyone's attention diverted, nobody noticed the one soldier muttering a message into his walkie-talkie, watching the fallen student with unblinking eyes.  
"Too easy," Sampson said, looking down at James with pitiless eyes. "You ought to be more careful"  
Though Ben, Harry and Melissa felt they should do something to help James, they knew better than to cross Sampson when he was doing what he was at that time: having fun. Instead, they headed over to the exam room, and waited outside with a smattering of their classmates, hoping for the best. 


	4. The Third Man

The maths exam was to take place in the pavillion, which was a long, white room at the back of the school, over looking the back field. Sterile and undisturbed, it was rarely used for anything at all, though sometimes if there were a sporting event or an open day, it would be opened to provide a functional, indoor area. 

On this particular Monday in January, the room had been equipped with forty-nine desks and chairs, in two rows of sixteen and one of seventeen, to seat the whole of 11D for the examination that lasted ninety minutes. Although the exam was of utmost importance, there were inevitable absences. The test began at half past one, and several minutes later, the redundant test papers were removed from the vacant desks. Mr Sharpe, the young teacher from the canteen, leafed through the papers, and counted thirteen absentees. He felt obliged to tell his colleague, Mr Davey who was going to be relieving his invigilation later in an hour's time, about who was present and who wasn't. The scribbling of pens and pencils, coupled with the punching of buttons on calculators, was a form of torture, in his view. Sharpe hated children. He only entered the teaching profession that September, and was already ready to leave. White Hill School had been his first posting, and would probably be his last. His only drive was money, and the financial benefits given to new teachers were all that was needed to lure him onto a teacher training course.  
He sat back down near a colleague whom he only knew by sight; another new teacher who apparently worked in the ICT department, and muttered conversation to him. At the back of the room stood a third teacher, a plump biology teacher with a friendly face, who scanned the back of the thirty-six students' heads. She smiled at her colleagues, neither of whom changed their facial expressions at all. Making no signs of hurt, she looked down at the two seats before her, one off to either side that should have been occupied.

Dominic Thomas was on the seat in front of the female teacher. He was blissfully unaware of hre presence as he wrote an answer down, then reconsodering his answer, re-read the question. His trip to London city centre had proved fruitless. He had met with his friends, but nothing of worth came of it. They had planned to go to the cinema, but there had been nothing worthwhile on, and by the time they had found something to do, none of them had the slightest intention of doing work. He felt tired and exhausted then, and more so now. He had remembered to fetch a newspaper for Joshua, but the elder sibling was not there when Dominic returned home.  
He looked down at the question before him again. Realising he had made a simple sign error, he rectified his mistake. The exam was going well, he felt, and if the questions stayed like this, he would have no difficulty in getting a good mark. After completing the question, he inhaled and looked at his classmates. Being positioned at the back (the class had been seated alphabetically, with the line snaking across the rows in turn), he could not see most of their faces, and could not turn too far to either side, lest the teachers believe he was communicating with the either Harry Smith or Natasha Timbershire, who were sitting either side of him. His eyes wandered over to the left, where Kavinder Khanum was sitting in the row ahead, her head tilted to one side, her sleek hair flowing down the back of her school jumper. The two of them were an item, albeit a recent event. For various reasons they wanted to keep their relationship secret; even their closest friends didn't know there was anything between the two other than friendship. In truth, Harry thought, there probably was no future for the pair of them. It was just a gut feeling and, although he loved her and was going out with her, felt instinctively that their relationship wouldn't last.

Half an hour into the test, and Lisa Jones was struggling. She hated maths with a passion, and the fact she forgot her calculator that morning didn't help matters. The numbers swam before her on the page, useless figures with no significance other than to make he life a misery. She decided she would guess the answers. After all, she could retake the exam again in the summer, so she could fail it in better weather. She was also tired from the previous evening. She had been out with Kavinder and Dominic and the others, but had got home later than the rest, due to having to catch the last bus home, getting off at a later stop to Lucy Shale, and then having to walk for fifteen minutes. Only her elder brother, Jeff, was awake when she returned; at that, he was comatose in front of the television, rotting his brain with a bad film. He grunted a hello to his siter, who took it to mean that her mother and little sister Olivia were in bed. Her mother wasn't much good. A broken-willed woman with a tendency to drink too much, it was usually Jeff or Lisa herself that did the parenting, especially since their bastard father-  
She blotted the thoughts from her mind. This was not the time to daydream, especially on issues like _him_. The clock seemed to have stopped moving at the front of the room, in the way only a really tedious situation seems to make it manifest so. William Hutchinson, seated to her left, coughed dryly. He furrowed his brow apologetically, and Lisa went back to fighting the statistics. Will himself was feeling quite low. He had had a lousy weekend, though knew that once this test was completed, he'd be able to relax slightly. He felt bad about leaving Mr Davey's French class. He didn't like to cause a scene, and he left the room mainly to stop his teacher from scowling at him. Admittedly he had enjoyed the adrenaline rush at the time, but now he feared the consequences. His eyes ventured down the line of backs in front of him until he was looking at Tom Clarke. After the two of them had made a stand against their teacher, they had headed out to roam the school for a while. There was little of interest (except for a pair of paramedics tending to a handful of eleven-year-olds whose friends looked on anxiously), and deciding not to bother going to afternoon registration or the subsequent lessons, the two boys returned to Tom's house to whittle the afternoon away. Will liked Tom; he was one of the few people whom he trusted totally, and to whom he had no trouble opening up. He saw as Tom readjusted his spectacles and stretched in his seat, his head rolling to the right. As the two seats to his right were empty (supposedly occupied by Alice Daniels and David Drake), he saw that William was looking at him from afar, and returned an encouraging smile to his friend.

* * *

Time passes. It is twenty past two, and fifty minutes of the exam have elapsed. The room had long fallen silent, short of an occasional fidget from a student, or a pace from an invigilator, or the constant sound of answers being scribbled down. Suddenly there was a flurry of feet and voices outside the room, which signalled the end of that lesson. Children ignoring the signs indicating there was an examination still going on in the room; if anything they were being noiser out of spite. As the female biology teacher invigilating the students of 11D said there were thirty minutes remaining, some more people entered the room from the door at the rear. One was Mr Davey, one was an Irish man called Mr Halligan who taught history, and the other two were men whom the students looking did not recognise. The new batch of teachers murmured to their colleagues about the invigilation; Mr Sharpe handed Mr Davey a list of absentees, only to be greeted with a look of disinterest. Though Mr Davey had offered the chance of a trip to France as an incentive to turn up, he was surprised that so many students had bothered to turn up in one day. The only other time in his memory when everyone was together at once was for a class photograph the previous year (he had been in charge of their class then as well), and the then 10M were incorporated into their class again, due to a different long absence by Mrs Murphy, who had supposedly had been injured in a skiing accident. The fact there were only thirteen students not in attendance was better than he had anticipated. There was something about the formality of exams that still caused children to try their hardest, even in such austere times.  
"You have thirty minutes remaining"  
The voice of the female teacher cut over the room, as Mr Sharpe tried to give his colleague, Neil, the register of absentees. He was slightly disgusted at the way in which the man showed a lack of interest in his students. He much preferred the reaction of one of the other members of staff, one of the men whom he dimly recalled seeing elsewhere earlier that day, who had been listening to their conversation. The man had asked if he could take the list and hand it in to the reception. He exited the room, as did Sharpe and the female teacher; the ICT man indicated that he may as well stay until the end. The other relief teacher carried a bag on his shoulder and positioned himself quietly in the back corner of the room, behind David Vales and Melissa Williams, put his bag down, then proceeded to pace the back of the room. Mr Davey and the ICT teacher sat at the front, catching up on some marking they had to do for various classes. Phillip Robertson was hurrying. He was immersed in the exam, relaying formulae with expert precision. He could finish this examination with ten minutes to spare, he felt. Everything was working very well for him, he felt. Phil was good at maths; Phil was good at most things: languages, sciences, humanities... everything except for conversation. Emotionally withdrawn, he often felt like a spare part in the class. Even though he turned up regularly, got good grades and did not cause chaos, people rarely seemed to speak to him, and had a reputation as a loner even though it was the fault of others that nobody spoke to him. Sure, he wasn't the keenest person to speak to people, and there was the issue that he tended to hide in the library or computer rooms at break and lunchtimes, which didn't help his case. However, he knew that if he succeeded in life, the stigma lingering around him would indeed be worthwhile. Flipping the page over, he noticed with relish that he was on the final double page. To his left somewhere, he heard someone entering through the door again; it was the teacher who had left with the papers of the absentees. Phil's eyes flitted quickly over the man's relief; he had cropped brown hair, a slightly piggy nose and was slightly short. Virtually the opposite of Phil himself, who was tall with floppy blond hair, and a Roman nose that had been the subject of a few nicknames when he was a small boy. Eyes darting to the man again, Phil spotted he was carrying a bag; a khaki hold-all. It was at this moment that Phil realised he had never seen this man before in his life, and certainly never before in the school. Though the drafting in of substitute and supply teachers was common practice (as there was a staff shortage, and nobody seemed willing to stay at White Hill longer than was neccessary), Phil thought it slightly odd they would get somebody new to invigilate an exam. He thought no more about it; he had almost finished the exam. His put his head close to the paper, and started replying to the newest question.

Ten minutes more had elapsed, and there was now no sound in the room. The students were approaching the end, and though some would reach it before others could, the finish line was drawing nearer, inevitable.  
"Class, you have fifteen minutes remaining"  
This was the voice of Mr Halligan. It made Hope Castle shudder slightly, due to its bizarre qualities. Though the teacher was stern-looking, strict and bossy, his voice was gentle and easy, the slight Irish accent adding to the effect somewhat. In her mind, Hope did not like his voice, because it didn't suit him. She thought the man, gravelly and powerful in nature, should have a voice that matched. She was nearing the end. She had been one of the few people in the class who had bothered to revise that weekend. Her father and brothers had taken care of her other, younger siblings, and vacated the house on the Saturday, leaving her at liberty to study as she so required. She appreciated the gesture they made; they knew that her maths was a little shaky. Being the eldest of six children, whe knew what responsibility was. She also knew what responsibilty required and never hesitated into instilling that into her brothers, Germaine and Christopher, who helped her look after their younger siblings Teslyn and Leonie. The youngest child, a four-year-old called Marcus, was sickly and small and needed special attention. He was the focus of Hope and her parents' affections, a combination of his being the youngest child and his extra needs. In spite of all this, he was warm and courageous, and revered his eldest sister like a second mother. To Hope, he was a beacon of inspiration and success, and she secretly admired him too, though she felt he was too young to fully understand that.  
Hope had turned the page, and realised with relief that she was on the final double page. Skimming the three questions, she judged that the first and second one wouldn't need much thought, but were quite long-winded at any rate; the final one looked challenging, but she didn't expect to find the test a breeze anyway, so did not dwell on the impending trouble any further. Something caught her eye; one of the teachers at the front was making hand gestures at her. Distracted, she sat up and looked questioningly at the man. It took her a few moments to realise he was actually signing to another teacher, who was hovering on the opposite side of her. She tried to recognise where she had seen the man before. She had a dim idea that he worked in the computer department, but there was something else about him. She tried to picture him somewhere else, and after a few moments more, recognised him as the teacher who had spoken to Mr Davey the Friday before at the end of their abandoned lesson. With this established, Hope was able to focus on her work again. She was aching and slightly tired, but within the next ten minutes she knew she could finish the task as long as kept her wits about her.

As Hope re-read the first of her three remaining questions, Steven Lee was on the penultimate one. A very average boy with long blond hair that framed his face, hair he always kept under a hat, he was content that he had gotten this far in the test, and that it had been easier than he had thought. He was sitting in the middle of the middle row, off to the left slightly, surrounded by five vacant seats. He was the only student between Francis Konig and Colin Nately who had bothered to turn up for the exam. Typical. He despised the class as a whole, or rather, its reputation as a hoard of delinquents. That stigma would stick for the rest of their academic lives. He himself was not a bad person, rather, he was proud of his morality. A wave of coughing broke out among the class. It was one of those inexpicable phenomena, he thought: when one person coughed or yawned, everyone else began copying them. Foolishly, having thought about yawning, Steven's brain triggered his mouth to do so, sucking in a rush of air, even though he was not tired. He had to focus on the test. He had calculated the results, but writing "2x" on the paper would not be enough to achieve seven marks. So began the tedious process of copying the algebraic formulae across and rearranging them as required. It was mind numbing and repetitive and as he wrote it out, he could felt slightly nauseous. The paper was swimming in and out of focus, and his forehead hurt; Steven considered an early night that night, but instead decided to compromise by having a late night and a lie-in the next day.  
He looked at the clock, where the little hand was hovering at a slight angle above the three, indicating he had but a few minutes to complete the question paper. He could do it; he knew he could. He rested his scarred cheek on his empty palm, and continued, determined.

Melissa Williams was in the back corner of the room, concentrating so hard on her examination paper she was hardly breathing. She was scribbling the results of the final question down. Eyes squinting in concentration, her heart leapt with a thrill, knowing she was moments away from completing the paper that had been worrying her immensely since before Christmas, when she had done her abysmal coursework. Before her, the empty chair of Charlotte Graves was positioned between herself and Adam Garretty, whose head was rolled back over his shoulders. To her left, another empty seat, belonging to a girl very few people had spoken to: Lindsay Vaughan. Melissa had never spoken to this girl; she had been in the other class when 11D was not intergrated as it was at the current time, and there was never any need for the two to interact and, at any rate, the other girl started boycotting school almost eighteen months ago. Nobody cared about the other girl; few even remembered what she looked like. Melissa sucked in a new breath of air. There was something odd about the air, a stale, rusty taste that Melissa may have noticed had she not been so focused on finishing the question. At any rate, the test was almost complete. She had just to rule a line under her solution and she was finished. She did so; she was finished! Relaxing, she closed her paper and thumbed through her question booklet, smiling smugly. As she did, a powerful wave of fatigue was washing over her body. Funny, she should feel so tired, so early in the afternoon; her eyelids were so heavy, she could hardly keep them open. She sneezed, which seemed to clear her head a little. She turned her head up, and looked around the room. She suddenly noticed that there was only Mr Davey and Mr Halligan, and although the test was nearing its end, both of them seemed to have their heads down, their eyes focussed keenly on the papers on their desks. Like Phillip Robertson had before her, Melissa had also wondered why they had drafted in so many supply teachers to oversee one class. It confused her slightly, as there were undoubtedly enough members of regular staff who were prepared to invigilate an examination instead of teaching. Even so, she was adamant she had seen one of these people before, adamant she had seen one of these people before. Her mind was swimming out of focus, she was having trouble thinking; like she was drunk, her mind was forgetting things, her mind was repeating things, her eyes were dancing, she heard a 'thud' elsewhere in the room but couldn't distinguish where it was coming from. Melissa Williams tried her hardest to think of where she had seen the one teacher before, concentrating on the image of his face she was recalling from when they made brief eye contact as he walked past her in the invigilation. She was sure it was in school somewhere, that it had been recent. Melissa's mind was slowing down alarmingly, had she had the strength to do so she would have panicked there and then, but the food in her stomach was churning, making her feel sickly.  
Food in stomach. Food in James' face. Funny. The canteen.  
He was not a teacher, but a soldier.  
Confused, she stuck her head on the floor and slept.

Everyone was tired. Emma Newton was slightly ill; she had been coming down with a cold all weekend, and the wind and rain from the previous afternoon had exacerbated the symptoms. Her nose was blocked slightly, so she paused to clear her nostrils a little. The exam was inconsequential; she knew she was getting a very average mark. Just looking at her classmates, she felt tired and anxious. In front of her, she could see the sleek hair of Lena Amornie slumped on the desk, and on her right, Tom Billings was slowly making marks on his paper, though he also looked asleep. Even the teachers at the front looked like they were asleep: Mr Halligan had his head hanging over his chest, and Mr Davey was slouching dangerously. Alerted to the unnatural mass slumber around her, Emma began to panic. This was redoubled when Steven Lee keeled sideways off his chair, several desks to her right. The 'thud' was loud, but nobody seemed to react except for her. Emma had completely forgotten about the test now: something was seriously wrong. Her own eyes were hurting, though this was partly due to her cold; the mucus in her nose seemingly offering protection from the infectious sleep. Somebody else had fallen from their desk. Emma turned round to see it was Melissa Williams in the far corner of the room. Emma screamed. Nobody responded. Frantic, she turned and saw to look for the other teachers.  
They were all stood at the back of the room, wearing gas masks.  
She screamed in sheer panic; they had been gassed! What had happened? Was it a terrorist attack? Some elaborate plan conspired by a member of staff to earn revence against 11D? Abandoning her chair, she stood up, and shook Luke O'Neill violenty, sat at the adjacent table.  
"Luke," she said, but noticing the negligable response, yelled. "Luke! Can you hear me? Wake up! Everyone's been knocked out"  
"'At's nice," he mumbled quietly, seeming to miss the point. "Get some sleep"  
"LUKE!" She screamed, shaking him firmly on the shoulder, trying in vain to get his attention again. It was futile; it seemed that he had rolled into a deeper sleep than before. Emma heard footsteps approaching from behind. Her voice and actions had undoubtedly drawn the attention of the men with the gas masks. She needed to think quickly; her plans were always excellent, and she hoped her reputation would save her now. Unfortunately, the gas was taking its toll on her, and it was taking a massive conscious effort to think. The only thing she could think about was to run to the front, try and alert the teachers, and hopefully draw the guards away from the door, and chance an escape. Taking her chances, she dived forward, knocking her desk over. She could hear footsteps behind her. She mustn't turn round, Mr Davey was just yards in front of her. She dodged between Samantha Carter and Graham Brooke, using their shoulders as a slingshot, to propel herself forward with some extra momentum. She stumbled, her arms and legs were becoming stiffer as she worked them, the physical effort being immense. She was helped to her feet by somebody. Befuddled thoughts crossed her mind, as the noxious fumes began to make her eyes water. There was no hope, no hope at all. As one of the soldiers held her arms behind her back, she struggled weakly to free herself. A second person was picking up a khaki bag at Mr Davey's feet, and began wafting it in front of Emma's face. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the overwhelming chemicals knocked her unconscious in seconds, the third person to land on the floor.

The two men stood back, letting the body of Emma Newton lie prone on the ground, her one arm inches away from her form tutor's brown shoe. They were scanning the room, ensuring the thirty-eight people in the room were all unconscious. The men looked at the two betrayed teachers at the front, then to their military superordinate, who was still standing at the back of the room wearing a gas mask. The third man was slightly relieved he could drop the pretense of being a teacher. He hated children with a passion, and working with them for so many months had been a burden. Watching his troops shuffle from desk to desk, confirming the bodies of the students, he stepped outside the room, removed his mask, and rang a number from his mobile phone. "Meyer? This is Jeyes. What's your situation"  
"Eight attained, a further four are in our sights now"  
The faux-teacher Jeyes paused, breathing the pure air outside the room.  
"And the thirteenth student"  
"Has not been located yet, sir. We're following a promosing lead on her whereabouts"  
"Copy that. When you find them, take the bodies to the downstream rendezvous point"  
"Roger, sir"  
Jeyes ended the call and peered through the glass in the door. He had every confidence in Meyer; he was one of his best men, and would would not let his boss down. Meyer readjusted his tie; the gas mask had knocked it off-centre. The class had been chosen for the Juvenile Reform Bill the previous April, and the operation to purge the class of its troublesome students, and to purge the country of a troublesome class, was drawing to a close. As Jeyes re-fitted his gas mask and entered the room, the clock at the front was reaching three o'clock. The other two soldiers had finished verifying the bodies of the pupils (none of whom were showing signs of life so the task was quick), they told their commanding officer, Jeyes.  
"We're ready to go," Jeyes said from behind his mask. "We're taking them downstream."


	5. Awakening

Katie Smethwick did not know how long she had been asleep for, but she heard a voice in her ear, a panicked boy's voice, telling her to wake up. She felt her a pair of hands grasp her body and roll her over onto her side. Something was missing from her memory; she remembered drinking some fruit juice and speaking to somebody, but other than that, her day was missing. She was quite cosy, her head rested against something warm, and went back to sleep. It was too early to worry about anything.

Edward Jones gave up on Katie, and turned to try and wake somebody else. As far as he could determine, he had been the first to awaken. The cold flooring of the room he was in was strange and chilling against his cheek, as he stirred, and sat up. He was dimly aware of two things: the fact he must have fallen asleep in the examination hall, and that there was a dull, cold weight around his neck. He touched his throat, and felt a metallic collar was fastened around his neck. Suddenly alert, he sat up, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness of the room. He had no idea where he was, but it was nighttime.

There was moaning and stirring coming from the far end of the room, as the silhouettes of two girls moved, and looked somewhat bemused as well. Edward got to his feet, clambered over the mass of bodies across the ground, and approached the girls, to determine who they were. Within a few feet of them, he recognised the taller of the two to be Lena Amornie, and the other girl's hair was curled tightly, in the way Sophie Easton fashioned hers. Both girls made eye contact with their male comrade, and both fixed their eyes on Edward's neck. He too noticed that the pair of them were wearing identical chrome necklaces around their throats, and the boy inferred that it was a similar one he had felt around his neck, as well. The first one to speak was Lena.  
"Where are we, Eddie"  
"I don't know," was his reply. "I just woke up a few moments ago. What are the collars for"  
"The hell am I supposed to know?" Lena snapped back with her usual iciness, although her eyes were filled with fear. "Do you know where we are, what time it is"  
Edward shook his head, but Sophie pressed the button on her wristwatch, which illuminated the face. "Holy shit," she exclaimed. "It's quarter past eleven at night"  
"Eh!" Lena and Edward panicked, looking around them, their minds starting to defog significantly.  
"What do we do?" Sophie whispered at her two companions. It was remarkable that the three of them, who normally never interacted with each other in the classroom, were now allies, working side by side to comprehend the overwhelming situation they were in. Lena leaned back, her hand touching the hand of somebody else. She wheeled around, and recognised it as being Graham Brooke. Her usual dislike of him was smothered by compassion, an awkward feeling she rarely felt to people outside her innermost circle. Her eyes scanned the room silently, and she noticed there were a number of people twitching on the ground.  
"We wake everyone else up," she suggested finally. "We just have to."

The three students shuffled around the room, trying to poke and shake the assorted bodies, all of whom were wearing identical collars, round to their senses. Edward found his friend, Katie Smethwick, whose head was resting peacefully on Kimberly Small's stomach, grabbed her shoulder and tugged at it.  
"Katie!" he called at her. "Wake up; something's seriously wrong"  
"Eddie! Lena!" The voice of Sophie was calling from the other side of the room. "What is it," he asked, his hand turning Katie over onto her side. "What's that look for"  
"It's Rob Fraser," Sophie said breathlessly. "What's Rob doing here"  
Abandoning Katie for the time being, Edward kneeled up and gazed at the body over whom Sophie was crouching. It was Robert Fraser, sure enough; his muscular body, gelled black hair and pierced ear were illuminated by the minimal light in the room. Lena was also staring at him, Harry Smith's head cupped in her hands. "He's wearing overalls"  
The exclamation was obvious, but powerful. She had noticed that he was indeed wearing dirty blue overalls, and a white T-shirt underneath. It was rumoured that he had got a job as a mechanic, but the fact he was here with the school pupils added to the mystery.  
Edward turned his attention back to Katie. He suddenly realised she had not been in the examination either, and that she was wearing her own clothes, though it was less obvious, as she was wearing a black jumper and similar jeans, and this did not show up as well in the poor lighting conditions.  
"Katie over here," calling the two other active girls. "She's wearing own clothes, too"  
"Yeah, I know," Lena called from the back of the room, to the left of where she had been already, looking at three bodies lying side by side. "Dave, Colin and Paula are here, too"  
Sophie had pinched Robert Fraser's nose, and he coughed and spluttered, but awoke with a jolt. Unsurprisingly, he too was disorientated at first. "Who's that?" Rob demanded, his eyes maladjusted to the darkness. "Where am I? What the hell's going on? My neck feels tight"  
Sophie filled him in on the few details she knew, then asked him to help her. By this time, about nine of the students were adequately conscious to realise there was something wrong. There was a panicked look in their faces, and they stood up, trying to get their bearings.

Nobody was sure how long it had taken, but eventually the entire class was awake. There were hushed whispers, and an oppressive air of fear and confusion, as their reality became shrouded in speculation. A few of the students had found chairs, and were sitting down, not speaking to anybody, their brows furrowed.  
"Where's my bag"  
The voice of Steven Lee punctured the crowd, and everyone fell silent, and started looking on the floor around them. The floor was white and glossy, not unlike that of a hospital corridor. There was certainly a sterile, sober air to the room in which they were imprisoned. Suddenly, the voice of a couple of the girls in the corner called out; they had spotted the pile of bags near the front of the room, where there also appeared to be a picture frame, what looked like clothes on a few lines of hooks, and a television, though it was still hard to distinguish the exact details.  
A few of the students went straight to the pile of bags, destroying the tidy mountain. Within moments, a good number of the students had their bags, several hugging them for security.

The dozen of the pupils had formed a small group, muttering in hushed whispers on what they should be doing. Among them were Lena Amornie and Edward Jones, both of whom were prepared to work with their classmates for the better good.  
"What do we do now?" Luke O'Neill asked, his head swivelling between his neighbours in the circle: Lena and Sean Sampson.  
"We can't stay here, that's for sure," Jennifer Milton said, her enormous mass of hair draped over her shoulders.  
"This reminds me of something I read once, y'know," Dominic Thomas voiced slowly. "I just can't remember what it was, exactly"  
"Thanks for that input," Sampson growled. "I'll file it under 'U' for 'useless"  
"Screw you," barked Dominic, his temper rising.  
Sampson wheeled round to face him, but Samantha Carter jumped between them. Though quite small, she commanded a lot of respect from people, including Sampson. "You guys! This isn't helping. We need to figure out a way to escape. Now has anybody actually tried the door"  
There was a slight pause as everybody considered this, then a buzz of excitement. The door! It was so obvious! As Sampson and Sam called to everyone else in the room, Alice Daniels bounded over, to stand next to the door, adrenaline pumping through her veins.

The room had fallen silent, and all eyes were either on Sampson and Samantha, or the girl standing near the door, her cartoon-like hair visible even in the poor light. Alice took a deep breath, and turned the handle. Her face fell. It was locked; of course it was locked. She turned round to shake her head at the masses, when her eyes fell on the window, and widened. The window! She hurried over, her body alive, but was beaten by a couple of the boys who had been standing close to it anyway. There were thick, maroon curtains over the frame, which brushed the floor. By now, a crowd of students was forming near the window. They had to escape out of it; it was the only way. Adrian Masters helped Alice to wrench the curtains apart, and the room was flooded immediately by a dazzling spotlight. About ten soldiers standing outside the window turned when the curtain moved and raised AK-47s at the young faces peering through the Perspex. There was an involuntary yell and Alice fell over backwards as she scrambled away from the glass. A large proportion of the class were screaming and shouting. Chaos ensued, but not the usual, orderly chaos that 11D was familiar with, this was different, because they had no control over the situation; they were helpless and disorientated. People were tripping over each other, yelling, panicking. One or two of the students were still sat down, emotionless, their faces pale. Those few were close to comprehending the situation they were in now, and awakening to the grim reality that was imminent. Lucy Shale tripped over an abandoned bag and grazed her knee. Adam Garretty was pounding on the glass, calling for help. A huddle of girls had formed around the door again, trying to force it open. Ian Dunn and Francis Konig were scanning the room for other means of escape; the spotlight had added more light, and they noticed an air vent on the ceiling, but it was much too high to reach. Graham Brooke was also looking at the ceiling, but was concentrating on the front-left corner of the room, where he had spotted a CCTV camera peering back at him relentlessly. He suddenly realised that there were people watching this, and there had been no mistake: 11D had been deliberately chosen and put here by somebody, for some reason.

Suddenly the group of girls around the door squealed and backed away rapidly. The fuss was dying down in the room, so many of the students heard the sound of the lock being turned, and the swishing noise as the door opened. Several soldiers hurried in, and the startled class shuffled back against the far wall. The men seemed not to notice the students, and at any rate, there was another man coming through the door now. He was moving calmly and confidently, saying nothing. The floodlight had been extinguished, so the room was back in its relative darkness again. Then the man spoke.  
"You know," he began, addressing the class with a disarming sense of informality. "For a class who seem quite intelligent, I'm surprised that none of you have had the common sense to switch on the lights. Shepherd, if you may"  
The silhouette of the soldier nearest the door moved slightly and pressed a button; the room was filled immediately with a strong fluorescent light. Many of the pupils contracted themselves, hurting from the bright light to which they had suddenly been exposed. The young face of Mr Jeyes looked back at them all, and beamed.  
"There. That's much better isn't it, huh"  
So many of the students were bemused by their teacher's apparent calm that they started panicking again. However, because many of them recognised his face, they seemed capable of articulating their worries into coherent sentences.  
"Where are we"  
"What the hell's going on in here"  
"How did I get here"  
"Sir! I've grazed my knee, can you get someone to look at it"  
"I don't understand what's happening"  
"Sir! Can you tell us what's going on, for God's sake"  
"Why are there soldiers here"  
"Where's Mr Davey"  
"Who put this collar on me, huh"  
"I'm scared! Why won't you say anything"  
"Please, just help us"  
Suddenly, Mr Jeyes responded, and looked over at the last person to have spoken. It was a boy, a boy with dark hair and nondescript features.  
"It's... Luke O'Neill," said the teacher slowly. "Isn't it"  
Luke nodded, terrified. The man was fearsome, yet had an almost sympathetic look on his cruel face.  
"See? All I ask for is some manners," Jeyes began, addressing the class. "I can't believe that young Luke here was the only one of you who bothered to use the word 'please'. Yet, does this make him a better person than everyone else? Perhaps we should ask your former teacher, Miss Syme"  
"Who?" Jeyes turned around and looked John Trent in the face. John was wearing a chequered red shirt open over a yellow Reebok top, with faded stonewash jeans and white trainers; his gelled blond hair messed by his kidnapping, making him look more animal-like than ever. Mr Jeyes walked around his desk and approached the boy, who despite being taller than he was, looked alarmed by the approaching man.  
"You clearly weren't listening either, John," Jeyes said quietly. "I just said I'd rather you used manners when addressing me. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's rudeness. Now, would you like to ask me something, John"  
John looked slightly offended at being addressed like this, and was considering a witty comeback. After all, he wasn't scared of a teacher. But as he swallowed saliva, his prominent Adam's apple pressed against the inside of the collar around his neck. Touching it instinctively, the reality of the situation started to sink in. He looked at the teacher and muttered something of dissent.  
"No, John," Jeyes insisted. "You certainly just said something as I was talking to your classmate, Luke O'Neill. I'm prepared to overlook the interruption, so long as you tell me what it was you wanted to say"  
"Yes," John said slowly, uncomfortable with the knowledge that everyone was staring at him. "You said the name of a teacher, but I didn't recognise who it was. We've never been taught by a Miss Syme."

The whole of 11D awaited the response by Jeyes with bated breath. Perhaps it had all been a misunderstanding after all! Maybe they had taken the wrong class! While some people dared to hope this, others were anxious of the response of the teacher, whom none knew too well. When he chuckled, most were taken aback.  
"Of course you don't recognise her name," said Jeyes with a chilling smirk on his face, "because you didn't know her by that name. You knew her by her married name: Tina Davey. The wife of your current form tutor"  
Those who had been hoping of a way out of the situation deflated glumly. Mr Jeyes carried on, regardless.  
"I was just reminding Luke of the time when he stole her possessions," he said, his eyes fixed firmly on Luke, not giving him an opportunity to protest his innocence. "Do you remember that, Luke? I know it was never proven, but it must have been you, or if not, someone else in the class. "Of course, that was overshadowed by the unfortunate incident with the hypodermic needle," Jeyes continued. His eyes scanned the room, and saw many of the students' faces had frozen, seemingly remembering the incident. "Does anybody wish to own up to that here and now? Anybody? No"  
He looked around the class, all of whom had been afraid to move, to afraid to stand out and name the guilty culprits. "It doesn't matter any more. It's time your sins caught up with you. You know how they say: 'What goes around, comes around?' Well, the complaint that was launched by your teachers about that reached the very top, and one of the governors of your school decided to bring the matter to us. He had remembered, you see, about a new bill that had been passed through Parliament a while back now. We took the complaint, pooled it with others, and monitored the progress of your class. Suffice to say, you all know you didn't improve your behaviour."

Jeyes paused and savoured the unease of the students around him.  
"Last April, we decided to take action against your class for two reasons: the fact that your poor behaviour had worsened, as had your absentee levels. Should have heeded the warnings, and stayed in school, kids! The other reason is that we had had several other complaints about another class in your year group, so we decided to take both of your classes and teach you a lesson.  
"Now, those of you who bothered coming into school occasionally might recognise me as Mr Jeyes, a part-time member of staff at your school. This was a lie. I actually work for the British military, and infiltrated your school to work as a teacher, and to keep an eye on you all. Now obviously," he smiled ironically as the class squirmed before him, "you weren't going to make things that easy for us, so we had to devote a lot of resources to keeping tags on you all! Some of you bastards were really hard to track! People like you, John--" he nodded at John at this point-- "who go wherever they please, whenever they please. We tried to join your two classes together, by persuading one of your teachers, Mrs Murphy, to go on long-term leave, and to unite both classes under the dedicated eye of good old Mr Davey"  
An uneasy silence followed these words. Mr Jeyes didn't seem to notice. He had produced a Thermos flask from a small bag, and took a swig from it. Some in the class were wondering what he had meant by the word 'persuading' when talking about Mrs Murphy. The rest feared what had become of Mr Davey himself. Jeyes put his flask down and continued.  
"Of course, some of you truants decided to make things easy for us. You made habits and routines; a few of you even got jobs," He said, gesticulating towards Robert Fraser in his blue overalls. "Our operation required getting all of you here together. We were going to opt for your trip to France over the Easter break, but it became apparent speaking to your teacher that many of you weren't going. So we decided to up the ante and bring the date forward to January. Namely, your maths examination."

Everybody was hooked on his words, and nobody thought of interrupting. Jeyes relished the power over the children, and was almost hungry for the execution of the final stages of the mission.  
"It's been a very complex operation," he continued after the pause, his eyes alive and insane. "You, girl, made it especially difficult for us, deciding to go to Birmingham for a shopping break"  
His eyes were fixed directly on Lindsay Vaughan, a rather short girl with light brown hair and piercing green eyes, who was one of the more persistent truants. She was American, and her parents had moved to England for personal reasons. She transferred to White Hill School when she was fourteen, but stopped attending after a few months; a combination of homesickness and a dislike of her new school made her boycott school so much that in some circles she had gained the nickname, 'Lindsay Who?' Currently she was sitting on one of the desks, fidgeting. She blanched when the teacher whom she did not recognise pointed at her, but she figured she might take a chance.  
"Excuse me? But I don't know any of these people," Lindsay began, trying to make her faded American accent as broad as possible. "I'm American y'see, and I think you've confused me with somebody else, please"  
She looked at Jeyes, trying to make her face as straight as possible. She knew exactly who these people were, though, and she was happy that none of them were blowing her story. This may be her only opportunity to escape. She touched the collar, fearful of the consequences of what she had said, as Jeyes took a file out of his bag, turned it to a page near the back, and walked towards her.  
"Girl number twenty-four, Lindsay Vaughan, born November the third, daughter of Sarah and Michael Vaughan. United States passport holder. Home address, two-oh-six, Hunter's Lane. Younger sister, Dinah. Medical records: immunised against measles, mumps, rubella, tetanus, polio. Hospitalised aged twelve after being involved in a car accident in Pennsylvania, needing a large piece of metal removed from the left thigh, which left a large scar"  
Two of the soldiers promptly came over to Lindsay and grabbed her arms. She wriggled helplessly as a third came and tugged her jeans down. She kicked at him indignantly, while a few of the other girls in the class squealed in shock. Jeyes said nothing, but stared at her thigh, where a large scar stared back at him. The look on his face had darkened. The ironic smile had gone, and was replaced with a look of calm fury. He gestured to the soldiers who were holding her, and they let her go. She slumped to the ground, her eyes watering with embarrassment.  
"You asshole," she hissed as she hoisted her jeans back up. "You sick, fucking pervert"  
"If there's one thing I hate more than a rude person," Jeyes said, looking down at her, "it's a liar. You're no good and pathetic, Vaughan. That's why you're here"  
He cantered back suddenly, causing the class to jolt with fear. "That's why you're all here! You've caused so many people suffering with no consequence, but now the terror you've caused over the years has come full circle"  
He wheeled around and went to the front of the room again. There was a chalkboard at the front. His hand touched the green surface of it, then picked up a piece of chalk. Nobody could see what he was writing; his head was in the way. His hand was shaking passionately as he wrote some words on the board in block capitals, then spoke, without moving.  
"It's not unusual any more, I'm afraid," Jeyes said sadly. "Your class is just one of countless thousands who make the lives of adults miserable. You are resistant to punishment. You are so confident in yourselves that you would probably stand up against punishment until the point of death. Japan was the first country to experience this crisis; I'm sure you all remember their economy collapsing at the dawn of the millennium. They introduced a system that dealt with scum like you lot. Other countries adopted it at later stages; America even televises it on a cable channel. Britain was more hesitant about adopting this law, as it felt its children were its future. But what sort of future was this? Violent crime? Muggings and fear and rapes and assaults hurting the law-abiding citizen? Is that our future? Well, some powerful rhetoric brought these problems to the fore, and the bleeding-heart liberals in our political system changed their minds quickly enough. You needn't know the details of the entire process, just the end result: a bill was introduced, one that would revolutionise our responses to potentially dangerous classes. It is known formally as the Juvenile Reform Bill"  
Jeyes stepped aside and turned to face the class, the words he had written were exposed for everyone to see.  
"It is known less formally," he concluded, "As 'Battle Royale'!"

The air in the room seemed colder, the silence was deafening, and the illumination made the ambience darker. The forty-nine faces of the assorted students of class 11D all stared at the two bold words adorning the board. Suddenly, a significant number of people had had their worst fears confirmed, whilst others were awakening to what they were about to face.  
b"BATTLE ROYALE"/b 


	6. Briefing

The forty-nine pupils stared at the words "BATTLE ROYALE" on the board in front of them in absolute silence. Suddenly, from the back of the room, there was an "oh, no. Oh, no no no no no... not that," as Dominic Thomas leaned against the back wall, his knees weak with terror. Slowly, people started to respond, and to show their emotions. There were still many people, about thirty, who looked completely nonplussed, but the others were squirming uncomfortably, whispering among one another, grasping their collars with looks of horror. The panic was infectious; soon everyone was trying to escape the room, even those who didn't understand what was going on completely. Soon students were banging on the windows again, yelling over each other, hurrying from the stone wall of one side of the room to the metallic shutters on the other. More people amassed around the shutters, pounding and kicking them, though it was apparent that this wall was as solid as any of the others. Jeyes stood at the front, wordlessly surveying the chaos. He walked over to the line of soldiers.  
"Do the honours, gentlemen"  
The soldiers all moved towards the students, all of whom yelled in alarm, and moved backward. The soldiers grabbed their guns and each fired a round into the ground. Recklessly, the whole of 11D tried to overpower the soldiers, but to no avail; the men were muscular and well disciplined, while the students were frantic and disorganised. The forty-nine-strong crowd was pushed together into an indignant pile of limbs, their bodies stringy and tired.  
Another round of gunshots was fired over their heads. The students all ducked, their hands covering their heads instinctively. Seemingly, many of the students had yelled themselves hoarse; they were moving their mouths but no sound was being issued. A brief word from Jeyes beckoned the soldiers to return to the front of the room. He smiled.  
"Well, now you've all got that out of your systems, I'll continue. Who here knows what I am referring to here"  
Five hands rose slowly in the air. Among them were Dominic's, the American girl, Lindsay, and Julia Edwards, who had tears running down her cheeks. "And who here has some sort of idea of what the Battle Royale law involves, even if they don't know the details"  
Many more hands rose in the air to join the five already there; now, sixteen hands were up; their owners with varying degrees of anxiety on their faces.  
"Do any of you students," Jeyes said, indicating the group with their hands raised, "wish to explain to your friends what happens in the procedure"  
Once more, there was silence, as the students looked at one another uneasily, hoping that one of their comrades would do the deed. Jeyes smiled sympathetically.  
"I understand your reservations, kids. I know that none of you wants to stick your neck out right now," Jeyes said, pacing the floor. "However you should also know that you'll need to do just that in order to stand a chance in this game"  
Jeyes stopped pacing, breathed, and stood facing the nearest wall: the metallic one opposite the door.  
"For you lot," he said, seemingly choosing his words carefully, "the Reform Bill manifests itself in the form of a game. You would be forgiven for disbelieving that, given the extreme lengths we went to get you all here, but I'm afraid that one hundred percent attendance is vital here; it is in the very mechanics of the game for the entire class to participate.  
"There is a saying: Life is a game; the last one standing wins. Well, you're going to be testing that out, boys and girls!"

No-one spoke. The implicit reference of what Jeyes had said was chilling. Few who did not understand it anyway, dared to make the connection. Then one boy, Colin Nately, put his hand up gingerly.  
Jeyes fixed him under a steady gaze.  
"Yes"  
"Excuse me, sir," said Colin, being careful about what he was saying. "I'm not exactly sure what you want us to do, still. I, er, just wondered what was going to, erm, happen to us all, especially as, y'know, you said we're going to be living that expression. Sorry, but I'm not exactly following what you mean"  
For a moment, Jeyes looked at Nately with something resembling dislike. He then looked at the nearest soldier.  
"Who is that, Shepherd"  
"Boy number fourteen, sir," said Shepherd promptly. "Colin Nately. One of the truants"  
"Oh yes, I know the name. Well, Colin," Jeyes said, stepping forward (Nately stepped back, seemingly petrified), "I'm glad you asked me that. I meant what I said. But to spell it out for everyone: this is a game. More than that, a war-game. It is a game of death"  
The silence in the room seemed to change; somehow, it seemed like even the air had frozen. Jeyes carried on regardless.  
"The object of the game is to be the last person standing. You will all kill each other off. The only other alternative is to die yourself. You will battle among yourselves until there is only one of you remaining. That person is the winner. They can go home and return to their families. They will receive free psychological treatment and healthcare benefits for the rest of their life, plus private tutoring for the rest of your academic future, however long you wish that to be"  
There was an unanimous buzz of horror and revulsion at these words. Jeyes didn't care. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. From inside he produced a videotape. He walked over to the television set, and put it into the VCR player. All eyes in the room, even the soldiers, were on him. Turning his head, Jeyes addressed the room from over his shoulder.  
"Luckily for you, I have a familiar face to explain the rules to you.  
He switched on the television, and signalled to one of the soldiers to turn down the lights.

"Juvenile Reform Bill: How To Fight a Battle Royale"  
A woman's voice was announcing the title of the video to the room. The entire class looked bewildered, as almost everyone recognised the voice instantly. It was Divine MacKenzie, a well-known television personality, famed as a host and interviewer in numerous reality TV shows. The next shot of her in her trademark casual suit confirmed this. "Hello, everyone in class 11D of White Hill school, London! You have been selected for this year's Battle Royale! In just three days time, one of you could be the lucky winner, and be set for life! Guaranteed! Congratulations, guys"  
These words were met by silence. As ever, Divine MacKenzie was friendly and excited, but at the same time professional and businesslike, as if she was introducing the contestants at the start of a brand new series of a popular show. Her mannerisms were at chilling odds with the context.  
"Now, I'm sure your teacher has already outlined the object of the game. I am here to go into more detail. Okay now listen carefully. You are all on an island. It has been empty for many years now, but there are the remnants a village, a harbour that was used to bring you all here, plus many other points of interest, that you will undoubtedly want to explore in your own time! From above, the island looks a little like this," Divine MacKenzie informed the audience, her image being replaced with that of a map. The island seemed quite square, with a smaller islet in the top corner. Toward the bottom right corner, there appeared to be a forest; to the north, a large hill. Between these two landmarks, they noticed, there was a large box, marked: 'START'. It went assumed that that was where they were at that instant.  
"Now, you will all soon receive a map with attached compass, and a marker pen. I shall explain shortly why you will need this. But first, I'm going to talk about the collars that are around your"  
"DROP THAT THIS SECOND"  
Jeyes yelled at a girl in the crowd, a girl with frizzy blonde locks. She squealed and dropped her mobile phone; she had been trying to contact her parents. It fell to the floor, contacted her fashionable boots (complete with stripy black and red socks), bounced off the toe of the shoe, and skimmed over the floor with a clatter. Jeyes paused the tape and stormed over to her, his temper rising. She edged back, shaking.  
"And who are you?" "Chrissie... my name is Chrissie"  
"Christine Saxon," verified Shepherd, the soldier at the front. "Girl number nineteen"  
"Well then, Chrissie," Jeyes asked dangerously, touching the shiny new Motorola phone with his boot. "Who were you trying to contact"  
"My parents," said Chrissie, the concept of lying unthinkable.  
"I see," Jeyes said, raising his head. "Your parents and guardians have all been notified of your situation. Suffice to say not all of them were happy, but they soon realised there was nothing they could do"  
He looked at Chrissie Saxon calmly. He believed strongly in second chances.  
"Incidentally, your phones will not work on the island," he explained further. "There was a situation a few years back when certain students were sending text messages to one another. They almost rose against us, but we soon dealt with the perpetrators"  
"What do you mean, 'dealt with'?" Adam Garretty, boy number eight, asked with fear. Jeyes turned to him and smiled.  
"I believe that's where we were in the video before the rude interruption," said Jeyes pleasantly, before stamping down ferociously on the phone, breaking it in two.  
"Daddy can't save you now, Chrissie," said Jeyes simply. "Stand up for yourself and fight your own battles"  
Chrissie mouthed wordlessly as the man pressed play and the woman continued speaking.

"These collars are designed by some of the government's most skilled engineers," Divine MacKenzie was holding a silver ring, that looked like it had about a eight- or nine-centimetre radius. They could see a bulge at the front, and what appeared to be two small pads positioned symmetrically either side of the rear. Everyone recognised them to be the same make as the ones around their necks.  
"They are designed to keep track of your movements and actions. Now, every so often, your teacher will mention certain grid references. These co-ordinates will match with a square on your map - (the screen changed again to a map, but this time with an 8x8 grid overlay, with one square flashing white) - so for instance the barracks where you are currently is situated at grid reference F-6. Understand"  
A couple of the boys nodded involuntarily, holding on to each of her words, hoping to find a clue they could use. Suddenly, the square on the map turned red. Simultaneously, a floodlight from outside shone red light into the room, as if to emphasise the point further.  
"Now, as was mentioned a second ago, your teacher will announce certain grid references, twinned with times. At those times, those areas will become danger zones. The meaning behind that is clear: Do not stay there. Our computer locates and tracks your collars, and if we find you are lingering in a danger zone after the allocated time, then the system's computers will detect you, trigger an alarm and"  
She gestured to a collar on the table nearby. It was the same as all the others, except that there was a red LED at the front, which was flashing furiously. The audience was captive, the bottoms of their stomachs churning under the strain of information they had been receiving and now the thrill of foreboding. The collar bleeped furiously. Suddenly, there was a icrack/i as the collar jolted, then lay still, an amount of smoke issuing from the two pads, the top of the table scorched slightly.  
"Now, kids, imagine your necks inside that," interrupted Jeyes, pausing the video again. "It's not a big charge, but it's enough to sever the bottom of your brain stems, and slit the sides of your necks open, causing your jugular arteries to spray everywhere. Although it's a relatively fast way to die, it's certainly not pleasant, especially to the poor souls who happen to be nearby when the explosion happens and have to wash your blood from their clothes when it sprays them under high pressure."

The whole of 11D was speechless. This was the first specific description of their possible fates. Several students, boys mostly, were standing with their hands over their open mouths, pale and petrified. Even the tougher students like Sean Sampson and John Trent were gaping wide-eyed at the screen.  
"Now," the woman on the screen continued, unpaused, "as the game goes on, the number of danger zones increases, and the possible area open to you gets smaller. This is to encourage you to confront one another; because, let's face it, what's the fun if everyone hides in the undergrowth all the time, huh"  
She grimaced at the camera, with one of her trademark looks. It suddenly occurred to Harry Smith that she too was a mother. How could she be a supporter of a scheme that slaughters children? He had seen in a magazine just last week that she had announced her pregnancy with a second child. Looking at the screen, the woman looked like she had a slight bump, so he deduced that the tape could not have been made too long ago. He shook the thought from his mind. It was not important.  
"...tied into that, there is one other thing: these soldiers have worked tirelessly over the past few months, trying to organise this for you. It is necessary to have a winner, but because we can't wait indefinitely for one, we are setting a maximum time limit on this game: three days. If there is still no winner after that cut-off point, all the remaining collars will detonate, and there will be no winners at all. Got it? Good. I shall now hand you over to your teacher, who will explain the weapons."

Jeyes clapped his hands together enthusiastically, and bounced on the balls of his feet.  
"So! Does anybody have any questions before I continue"  
Everybody's eyes shifted from the front of the room to each other. Nobody knew what to say; to them, the situation was hopeless, and the teacher volatile. Finally, somebody broke the ice and put her hand up: Kavinder Khanum.  
"Yes, Kavinder"  
"What happened to Mr Davey"  
She knew it was a trivial question, given their plight, but she needed to understand what happened, and how serious they were.  
"Your regular teacher is currently in hospital, but is expected to make a full recovery"  
Kavinder noticed the man was dodging the question. "What happened to him?" "During the mission this afternoon when we took you all, he also felt the effects of the gas. I assume you all realise it was gas by now? Well, his head hung over his chest when he fell unconscious. He nearly suffocated himself"  
"You mean you nearly killed him"  
Jeyes smiled apologetically. "Next question"  
A boy put his hand up. "You again, Nately"  
Colin Nately nodded. "Why are you doing this"  
Jeyes' features suddenly became stern. "The Program started off as an experiment in Japan. Other countries adapted it to deal with their problem youth. You knew that; if not, you should've kept up with current affairs"  
"How do you live with yourself," a girl piped up desperately, "knowing you're sending children to early graves, you hypocrite? How can you condone the massacre of civilians and keep a clear conscience"  
It was the American girl, Lindsay Vaughan again. She had seemingly recovered from her earlier humiliation and was ready for another round.  
"Listen to yourself, girl," exclaimed Jeyes, irritably. "You are playing the 'child' card. Do you consider yourself a 'child'? Legally, perhaps you are a minor. But you don't go to school, you do your own thing, you have independence and your own wishes. To hell with anyone else who stands in your way! Just a few hours ago you decided to take yourself on a train journey to do some shopping! And you have the audacity to call me a hypocrite"  
"Go to hell, motherfucker"  
Jeyes gave her a withering look, then deciding she wasn't worth his hassle, turned away from her.  
"Does anyone else have anything to ask"  
There was a faint whimpering from the one side of the room. Lucy Shale had fallen earlier in the chaos and cut her knee open. It was bleeding quite badly. Her friend, Luke O'Neill, put his hand up nervously.  
"Sir? Lucy's cut her knee open. Can we do something for her"  
"Oh?" Jeyes said, his voice laced with some spiteful sarcasm. "Would you like me to send her home and let her see a doctor, or have my men shoot her here and now"  
"No!" Luke yelled, as several of Lucy's friends pleaded silently. "That's not what I meant"  
"No?" Jeyes persisted. "It would certainly level the playing field, and it would get the ball rolling"  
"No! Don't do it! For God's sake, don't! I take it back, I take it all back"  
"Actually," Jeyes said thoughtfully, "I don't think it sounds like a bad idea"  
"Leave it!" Lucy yelled suddenly through the panic, her eyes red with tears. "Thanks, Luke, but I'm fine. It's just a bit of a cut: I'm fine, I'm fine"  
Jeyes surveyed the scene, debating with himself whether or not to make an example of the girl. He decided he would, but in a different way.  
"Very well; you'll live to fight, Lucy. That boy O'Neill seemed to like you a bit," he said, slightly disappointed. "Now, I want all of you kids to take a good look around you! There are forty-nine students in this room! Look at your friends, your boyfriends, your girlfriends, your neighbours! None of these terms mean anything any more. Only one of you can hope to survive the next three days. At least forty-eight of you will die. I suggest you start severing your emotional ties now. Ultimately, you have to save yourself, and if you want to reach the end, you must do it standing on the bodies of all of your classmates, even if it means killing your best friend"  
Thomas Clarke was standing motionless in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on Mr Jeyes. He was absorbing every word that was being said. Phil Robertson, too, was sitting on a seat, not blinking. Nobody was happy about the circumstances. But what could he do to fight the tide?  
"...and remember this at all times: Friends come and go. Society is not fixed, there is movement and people enter and leave your lives. Some of you know that already. However many of you should reaffirm that idea. You were not going to stay in touch with everyone else in the room. Sooner or later; you would have to part. It is just that in this case we are going to give you all the opportunity to decide when you say goodbye to whom"  
Jeyes rolled his head around on his shoulders, and turned to the soldier near the metallic wall.

"Meyer, bring in the weapons." 


	7. Rude Students

The metal door folded back on itself as an opening slid apart. Two more soldiers entered the room; both of them were moving a large grate, like a large storage area, with several rows of shelves, made of a dull steel mesh upon a set of casters. Upon these shelves were many large bags, possibly sixty or so. All of them were an identical taupe colour; the storage unit seemingly straining under the pressure. Some of the bags looked bulky, whilst others were smaller and were squashed between the adjacent ones. Some seemed to have poles sticking out; these protruding pieces were wrapped in black bin liner. The class made no sound as the bags were placed at the front of the room. One of the soldiers retreated to the portal from which the rack had entered; the other took a black drawstring bag from the rack, opened it, and hung it on the coat hook nearest the door. He then went back to the portal where the other uniformed man was standing; they left silently and the metal door slid shut again.

The class was hissing uneasily. The mention of weapons had frightened them, and the fact that several sharp objects appeared to be protruding from several of the bags, from within their bin liners, left little to the imagination.  
"They say that all men are created equal," Jeyes said, quoting a familiar philosophy. "This is a lie. Of course you are not all created equal. Some are richer than the poor, others are more sickly than the fit, others are cleverer than the norm. Make no mistakes: All men are created unequal. There are features that some of you possess, strengths of academic industry, sportsmanship and personal history, say, which differentiate you from everybody else in the room here, without exception. You are all different. But as a consequence of this, some of you will be better suited to the environment to which you are about to be exposed. This will give those people a natural advantage, and that's hardly fair on the other, less fortunate students is it, eh?"  
Nobody spoke, they weren't sure whether this was a rhetorical question or not. At any rate, nobody was prepared to make any careless comments, following Luke O'Neill's question that nearly got Lucy Shale assassinated.  
"At any rate, there is a way around this obstacle: the random assignment of weapons. We shall issue you each with a weapon," continued Jeyes, moving toward the nearest end of the rack. Some of these will be very useful in your mission, whilst others will not be much help at all. Naturally, the rest will be somewhere in between, effectively causing a continuum. At any rate, whatever you are assigned, it is down to you to use it to your advantage. There are some unusual ones in the fray, as well; more than just knives and guns! Be creative with your killings!"  
"Y-you can't do this!" a new voice piped up, seemingly panicked. It came from a small boy with scrubby hair, a chubby face and spectacles. Jeyes frowned at him.  
"You're... Ian Dunn," he asked, awaiting some form of confirmation. Ian Dunn nodded. "Well, then, Ian. Why can't we do this? What's going to stop us from giving you weapons?"  
"The law," he squeaked desperately. "This is illegal, surely?"  
"We are the law."  
Ian reacted to this comment like he had been slapped in the face. He recoiled slightly, but soon continued, defiant.  
"No, there must be other things that are being omitted here. Giving guns to minors? Overseeing the death of children at the hands of others? Ripping their necks open if they cause trouble? I don't see the rationale!"  
There was uproar at his words. The points he had highlighted roused some of the more political members of the class. It was possible to see the likes of Sam Carter and Dominic Thomas developing logical arguments; Ian had given them an opening and, although he himself was not particularly politically minded, he was determined and driven enough to keep pushing his case forward. It took another round of gunshots fired into the air to quieten the class down so that Jeyes could speak again.  
"Like I said before: We are the law. This is not just some random, unsubstantiated fight we decided to do on a whim. There is enormous political and legal support backing the Reform Bill. Our Prime Minister himself supports it as an emergency procedure. This is the eighth year of the Battle Royale; we average about three fights every two years or so. This is the twelfth one. So far, none of the participants were thrilled by the situation they were in, but it didn't stop them from fighting to the death. We cannot force you to fight. If you wish, you can all commit suicide together three days for now. If you don't fight, you don't live. Life is a struggle. If you want to succeed in life, you have to fight for yourself. This is a microcosm of real-life, enforced by laws that supersede petty debates. We are the law. Find something that contradicts the procedure sufficiently and we may let you go free.  
"Gun laws," said Sam promptly.  
"Yes," said Ian with an air of triumph. "In the UK possession of firearms is illegal! Using ones will wind you up in prison. Murder, even more so! How can you say that a winner will live a life of support from the civil government when they have violated one of the civil laws?"  
Several students yelled, "Hear, hear!" at these words. This was it; the Bill was based on substantial hypocrisy! They might finally be free to leave! Jeyes put his hand up to silent the masses.  
"We have already considered that problem. That is why we are no longer in the United Kingdom. Your bodies were transported to this island, about two hundred miles away. Technically, where we are now is under land owned by the Dutch government. British law no longer applies. It's a loophole that we are using to facilitate our Battle Royales. Did you think it would be that straightforward? Of course not. Now, unless you want to be the first to die, I suggest you pipe down."

Ian opened and closed his mouth, trying to decide if he dared press the issue further. Eventually he deflated slightly, defeated. A few of the people who had rallied behind him now fidgeted awkwardly. The room was quiet once more, quiet enough to distinctly hear the word "prick", issue from somebody's mouth.  
"Who was that?" Jeyes demanded, making a big play on being offended. Nobody admitted anything. It had been a girl's voice, and although a few people knew who it was, nobody dared say anything. He signalled something to Meyer, who started whispering into a handset, but Jeyes himself had returned to the rack; he had apparently let it go.  
"Now, what I said about us being in Europe is true. The time is oh-one thirty-two; change your watches." Jeyes watched with certain satisfaction as there was a flurry of activity as the students who were wearing watches busied themselves with rectifying the time difference. Whilst they were doing this, Meyer signalled something back to Jeyes. Only Natasha Timbershire saw the hand movements from her spot against the metal wall: Meyer had put one fist on top of the other, only the top one had two fingers extended. He then repeated the gesture, but with all the fingers on his right hand extended, keeping the thumb in its hidden position. She had no idea what this meant. She also didn't have a watch, but it appeared that Jeyes was soon to address that.  
"Now, I know a lot of people don't like wearing watches, but don't you guys worry!" Jeyes indicated the drawstring bag on the peg nearest the door. "We have provided a lot of wristwatches for you all to use. Feel free to help yourselves to one from that. All of them are at the correct time. If you don't want one, then please yourself. At any rate, I will be announcing the danger zones at 6am, along with a list of your dead classmates. After that, the next announcement will be at noon, with the newest list of casualties and danger zones. After that, there will be announcements every six hours. I advise you to pay attention to them."  
His arm contracted slightly, so his pointed finger was directed at the hooks where many coats were hung. Some of the students saw their own coats among the mass.  
"The weather outside isn't great, suffice to say. It's currently snowing. We brought your coats along, or rather, the ones we managed to locate. There are some standard issue ones as well, so help yourselves to these, as well if you need them."  
One of the unnamed soldiers picked such a coat from the hook, and threw it to Jeyes, who promptly put it on over his suit. The coat itself was black and waterproof. It didn't look particularly warm, the kids thought. The soldier had knocked one of the other coats, a red waterproof, to the ground. William Hutchinson recognised it as his, but said nothing.  
"Okay! Now a bit more on the contents of the bags!" Jeyes grabbed the nearest bag and put it on the table. The whole classed peered forward a little, their fear being pushed aside by curiosity. The bag itself seemed neither bulgy nor empty; it was quite average considering the others.  
"Inside your bags there is a map and compass, as promised," Jeyes said, lifting them out of the bag in turn, and placing them on the desk. Charlotte Graves, who was standing nearest the desk, saw that there was a list of student names running down the side of the map. "Also we have a pen, to mark on the danger zones as and when they occur. In addition, we have some basic rations for you all: water and bread. And then we have the random weapon." The class watched with bated breath as Jeyes made a big pantomime of the weapon in the bag he had emptied, and several people yelled slightly when he pulled out the weapon itself.

It was a top hat. The students chuckled slightly in spite of themselves as Jeyes picked up the sleek, black hat, and tossed it to one side. It was caught automatically by Lindsay, who put it on, the hat making her head seem bizarrely disproportional.  
"You don't want to do what I just did, kids," Jeyes said. "Never throw away your weapon, however worthless it seems. You'd probably want to keep hold of it. Be creative!"  
He then proceeded to turn back to the rack, pull off the next bag, open it and pull out what looked unmistakably like a small harpoon gun.  
"Of course, there are some weapons that are self explanatory," he said, correcting his handgrip on the gun, and shooting Lindsay Vaughan through the stomach.  
She hadn't even been given time to defend herself. One second she had seen Mr Jeyes pull a weapon from the bag, the next there had been a searing pain tearing through her gut; she was knocked backward by the impact, blacked out and lay still.  
The rest of the class let out involuntary cries when they had seen the deed performed; few had been quick enough to avert their eyes, and all had heard the macabre ripping sound of her skin being severed. Jeyes said nothing. He walked over to where the body was, and looked down on her. She was quite plain, he mused as he looked at the spread-eagled girl, the top hat now on the floor, sprayed with some blood. She couldn't have been any taller than 5'2", but there was a certain amount of power in her body. Her jeans, that just minutes ago had been around her ankles, were darkening slowly as the blood soaked them. She had been the rude student just now. Jeyes wanted to make an example of her. He tugged the barbed spearhead from her stomach, which pooled with red instantly. Her eyes opened with shock and she struggled for air. The rest of 11D were panicking, not sure what they should do. Lindsay was twisting hopelessly on the ground, her tongue out, panting for air as she clung desperately to life. Jeyes bent over her, doing his very best to make sure most of the mess landed on the coat. He pulled her pale face to look up at his.  
"The collars monitor who does what. You were the one who called me a prick just now. I don't like liars, and I don't like rude students." Jeyes brandished the bloodied harpoon dart before her eyes. She bit the tip of her tongue, concentrating on the blurred shape before her, trying to get the image to converge into focus. She only dimly understood what was being said to her. She felt a wet scraping noise against her neck, and realised it was the barbed dart. "Now that was a prick for you."  
"Uhh..." Lindsay closed her eyes, trying to say something to her killer. "...'uck you, you asshole..."  
Jeyes stood up and frowned. He stabbed her again with the dart, this time in her lung. Blood showered everywhere. Lindsay writhed in agony, unable to breathe.  
"Should watch your mouth, girl."  
Jeyes crouched down over her, his eyes fixed firmly in her face, inattentive of the cries and pleas of some of the other students. He touched her mouth with his bloodied hand. It was still thrashing slightly, only now it was a weak movement, losing life. He was struck with a sudden inspiration, drawn from her panting from air just moments before.  
"Like I said, everyone," he said, addressing the horrified crowd, "if in doubt, be creative."  
He then returned his attention back on Lindsay's mouth. He prised it open, and peered inside. The putrid smell of blood from her corrupted lungs was issuing from her mouth. He took her tongue in his cold hand and massaged it, so it lay long and flat, the tip protruding from her mouth. He grabbed the tip with his right hand, and holding her head in place with his left, wrenched the muscle out.

It erupted from her mouth in a shower of blood; the splattering of red fluid overriding the tearing as it was torn out of place. Lindsay herself lay still, unlike all of her classmates. They had started screaming at the bloody demise of their classmate, and once again were rioting. Jeyes walked back behind his desk and waited patiently for the soldiers to restore order to the classroom. For several minutes, 11D struggled against their captives, trying to save themselves, but again, none of them were thinking rationally enough to be very effective. The first of their classmates had been killed, and nobody was in any doubt any more that the situation they were in was indeed very real.  
_Girls #24 Vaughan, dead. 48 remaining._

"I think that's enough demonstration of the weapons for now," Jeyes said once order had been restored to the room. "Now we can return to the video."  
He clicked the button at the television and minor celebrity interviewer Divine MacKenzie carried on her talk.  
"Now, to all of you guys in 11D. I know you're probably unhappy right now, but the ends outweigh the means, trust me," she said. Had the class been anything other than shocked at the death of their comrade, they would probably have snorted something derisory at this blatant lie. "Which is why I have a special guest here with me right now! The previous Battle Royale did not produce a victor at the end of three days, however the one before did. On May the twenty-third two years ago, Hartcliffe secondary school, class 9PH, from Whitstable in Kent underwent the Program. For them, thirty-one students fought long and hard for over two and a half days, and eventually, a winner emerged. He is here with me right now. Hello there, Pat."  
The forty-eight students said nothing. They looked at the boy on the screen, who was sitting in a deep red armchair. He was sitting there in a plain black T-shirt and faded black jeans. His shoes were also black, but there were green streaks down the sides. The boy named Pat would probably have been aged fourteen when he had undergone the Battle Royale program, so must have been sixteen at the time of the interview. He was of average height with short brown hair. Although he was of a seemingly average build, Charlotte Graves noticed he had a starved look about his face; large shadows lingered, hooded, underneath his hazel eyes.  
"Hello," he replied, his deep voice flat and slightly distant.

The boy's voice was hauntingly flat; the students all fidgeted uneasily at the sound of his greeting.  
"So," the woman on the tape continued, professional as ever. "You are a survivor of the Battle Royale Program. What was it like to win?"  
"For a few seconds, I felt great," the boy said, his face taking a lop-sided grin, before it broke into a pout. "I'd killed people... I was a murderer. A dirty murderer. So many people didn't survive because of me. I started to cry..."  
From their different locations in the room, Emma Newton and Lucy Shale were staring so intently at the screen, their jaws were sagging slightly, making them look slightly gormless. Adam Garretty was standing quite close to the dead body, which was now issuing a vile, bloody stench; he had his hand over his mouth and nose, squinting his eyes in nausea.  
"Now, tell us all what your original weapon was, Pat."  
"It was a cutlass," the boy said, making swishing movements with his arm, apparently in reminiscence. "I knew I had a chance to live with that and a chance to find the girl I fancied: Ellen Constantine."  
The picture on the screen faded out from the face of the victor to one of his face among a group of friends: the former class 9PH from Kent. Everyone was smiling happily as they posed in front of a coach. They looked like they were all on a trip somewhere, perhaps in Wales, as it was set on a hilly landscape; all of whom were smiling contentedly. In the middle was a teacher, a woman who looked like she was in her late fifties, a thin grin on her face. The students around her looked like they were all aged thirteen or fourteen. Matt Sherman deduced the class in the photograph must have been captured on the return leg of this trip. It was hard to believe that all but one of these children were dead. Pat's face was grinning behind that of his teacher; he was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt. Did he kill these people around him in those clothes?  
"Who was your first kill, Pat?"  
"A boy called Lloyd Jacobs," Pat said, the picture switching to a boy on the inside edge of the group, wearing a childish grin and sporting scrubby hair over his Tottenham Hotspurs top. "He was hard of hearing, so I guess he was an easy target. I brought the cutlass down on the crown of his head from behind, and sliced his face as he screamed on the floor... again... again... took off a big chunk from his jaw. He wasn't a threat, he had a traffic cone for a weapon. It was a nasty thing to do, but I needed to do it to prove something to myself."  
"What was it like to take a human life?"  
The voice hesitated, whilst 11D listened on with bated breath. "The first time, after Lloyd... I stumbled away and threw up. I felt ill whenever I saw his blood on my clothes. But it became easier as the game went on: them or me. It was quite simple."  
This was too much for Adam; the talk of blood and vomit make him fall to all fours and retch copiously over the floor. Some of the class looked like they wanted to join him, but none did.  
"Now, during your time in the Program, you must have encountered several of your friends-" the voice of Divine said, partly drowned out by Adam's vomiting. Patrick interjected with an urgent-sounding, 'Yes', and started counting on his fingers (the photograph had gone and the two people in the studio was back on the screen), a child-like mannerism in his behaviour. "There was George and Helèna and there was Jack and Robin and Jade and Anne-Marie and Ellen and Billy. I saw those people."  
"How were they reacting?"  
Pat leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply, staring skyward.

"After Lloyd I saw Anne-Marie and Jade first," he said, carefully thinking through the course of events. "They saw the blood down my front and ran off before they got too close to me. They were scared, and were dead by sunset, I think. I saw Robin dead at the bottom of a hill, his neck broken. I don't know who did it, but I took his jumper, as it was black and would cover up the blood on me. Then a few hours later, George and Helèna. They were friends of mine."  
The screen turned to a photograph of a group of three students: Pat, sitting with a can of soft drink in his hand, next to a thin boy with a tall, wiry build, whose arms were round a pouting black-haired girl with glasses. The couple must have been Helèna and George, 11D reckoned, with Pat and George making immature gestures at the camera.  
"Yeah, George didn't even get a chance to react before I cut his throat. Helèna pleaded with me to spare her, as she only had a paper bag for a weapon. I couldn't take any chances. It was funny, her pleas stopped sinking in the instant I picked up George's pistol. Four bullets solved my problem," Pat said, his voice suddenly making four quiet gunshot noises, like was firing at an invisible girl. "At any rate, Jack was a fighter. He was like me, out to get anyone who crossed his path. He had a katana, a helmet and a flak jacket, and he looked like he was going to defeat me until someone came out of nowhere and shot him. He was distracted, and I slashed at him, and he fell to the floor. It was Ellen, and she was horrified at what she had done."  
"Did you hear that, guys?" Jeyes called suddenly. "There will be other kids out to get you, so be careful, okay?"  
"We moved on together, but didn't really run into anyone else for a while after that," Pat said, seemingly enjoying relaying this story, like it were a light anecdote. "We saw that Billy Parsons had killed a girl with his dagger, so Ellen and I wasted him. It was his girlfriend, May. I was astonished it had come to that, and frankly he should have died for stabbing her in the back like that. But as the body count slowly built up, the Ellen and I knew we could win. We kept track of the names as they were announced every few hours, and after Ellen beat the other guy left standing, the inevitable endgame came. We kissed for the final time, knowing it was now everyone for themselves. She had a few bullets left, but they were wasted on the flak jacket I had. She ripped a huge gash on my arm with her katana, wounding me. I dropped my cutlass and fell to the floor. She raised the blade to kill me, but I took the dagger I had aquired the evening before and thrust it into her heart. It was over in an instant: she was dead."  
At the back of the room, Chrissie Saxon sobbed into the chest of her boyfriend, Eddie Jones, whilst Katie Smethwick looked at the pair of them. This was truly tragic; the two lovebirds would be broken apart so soon, possibly turned against one another like the boy and girl from the tape had been obliged to do so. Patrick had raised the sleeve of his shirt, showing a long, pink scar that he had evidently obtained in that struggle with the girl he fancied. And as Divine asked him her final question, his face broke out into an inexplicable grin and he giggled happily, as if he was savouring his victory yet again:  
"So how does it feel to kill your best friend?"  
The boys eyes focused on the woman, and without answering her, swung his head round to look down the tube of the camera. His face went out of focus once more, replaced with a photograph of a girl with wavy, blonde hair; her innocent smile frozen in eternity. It could only be Ellen, the final kill of the student on the film, and the final victim of that year's Battle Royale.

It suddenly struck Charlotte Graves that the boy on the video was insane. His smile was uneven and warped, at odds with the cold, cruel look of his eyes. Whatever humanity the boy must have had once had been burned out of him, his teenage will utterly extinguished. What would happen to her, she wondered, should she live? Was it proper to think of survival as a possibility? It was unlikely that the victor would live at the end of the combat; they would only exist, an empty shell, like the boy on the video.  
Suddenly, the main door swung open, and all but two soldiers left the room. The soldiers Meyer and Shepherd stood either side of the bag rack, their eyes lifeless.  
"That's it! Teacher, I think everyone is ready to go!" Divine MacKenzie called from the screen. "Good luck to all students in 11D! Fight well and with gusto! Remember to fight for yourselves, for survival, for victory. The winner is the last person standing. We are going to let you all go now, one by one. You will leave the room in the order of your student number. You may take your personal bag if you have one, along with the equipment provided. Always remember: Life is a game: the last one standing wins. This ends your briefing. I shall now announce your student numbers one by one. Your teacher will pause the tape until you are adequately clear of the room. Do not linger."  
"The student numbers you have," Jeyes explained further, "are simply a numeric reference we have devised to keep a tag on you. It is simply whether you are male or female, then alphabetically by surname. The count starts with the person whose surname is first alphabetically. When you leave the room," Jeyes said, gesturing with his left arm, "turn right and head down the hallway. The exit is the large door immediately ahead of you. There is a sensor near at the end of the corridor. When you tread on it, it activates this red light here-" he pointed at a red light above the door where Shepherd, the tallest of the two soldiers, flicked a switch, apparently to switch the light on- "which will tell me to release the next student. This will carry on until all forty-nine of you... sorry, forty-eight of you... have left. The game starts for you the second you leave this building. The time is zero-one forty-five hours. The game begins."  
Jeyes pressed the button on his remote control once more, and the lady on the screen.  
"Is everybody ready? When I call out your name, please proceed to the exit. You will have seventy-two hours from the instant the first pupil leaves the building."  
She saluted briefly, then standing up against a magnolia background, her mannerisms changed. She was suddenly very formal and soldier-like. She was staring down the tube, looking straight out, with the type of eyes that follow you around the room. Everybody was anxious for her to call the first name.  
"Boys number one," she said, like a general addressing her troops. "Aldridge, James."


	8. Roll Call

James Aldridge went pale on hearing his name being called out, his milky skin contrasting with his red hair. Though he knew he was going to be first out the door, the foreknowledge itself was no comfort, given the circumstances. As he bent down to collect his schoolbag, he caught a powerful smell of blood and vomit suspended in the air. The situation was too unreal, he told himself. There was no way this could really be happening. Even as he felt his collar move slightly as his backpack jostled his shoulders, he clung desperately to the idea that this could all be an elaborate hoax. It wasn't a dream; you never smell things this clearly in dreams.  
"Quickly!" barked the soldier named Shepherd. James hesitated, then approached the front of the room. Meyer threw a bag roughly into James' arms; he then took a standard coat and watch from the hooks and stepped into the corridor. The minute he did so, he regretted not looking at his classmates one final time before the group was separated, and instinctively he presumed that he wouldn't be allowed to re-enter the room now. He walked quickly up the corridor, not making eye contact with any of the soldiers that lined his path.

In the room, everyone was silent, waiting for the signal light above the door to go red. Only one person was not looking at it: Lena Amornie. She knew she would be the next person to be called forth. She was presently sat at the back of the room, seeing nothing but the backs of her classmates' heads. She eyed her bag on the ground, it had her mobile phone and her house keys in it. Even if she couldn't contact anyone away from the island, she could probably use the keys to defend herself, should she be assigned a useless weapon. Her mind turned to the route she was going to take. She decided the best thing to do would be to get as far away from her current location as she could, but at the same time, second guess the movements of other people, so she could avoid them until numbers thinned out a little so she could come out and--  
"Girls number one," interjected the voice from the screen. "Amornie, Lena."  
Her face down, she dodged forward through the crowd, to pick up her bag from the floor. She moved forward swiftly, caught her bag, turned to take her coat from the leftmost hook, put it on with a certain elegance, then grabbed her bags and ran out of the room. Her loud footsteps grew gradually quieter, until they fell totally silent. The light turned red again. Jeyes unfroze the cassette.

"Boys number two: Billings, Thomas."  
Tom Billings looked at his friend Sean Sampson, perhaps hoping for inspiration or maybe even a strategy to save them now. Sampson did nothing; though his head turned at the announcement of his friend, his eyes were gazing at the body of Lindsay Vaughan on the floor. He had seen her die. The man at the front of the room had made it look so easy. Like his girlfriend, Lena Amornie, he was analysing thousands of possibilities in his head, like a chess grandmaster. Tom Billings had walked gingerly to the front-left of the room, skirting the pool of blood with care, to pick his personal bag from the remnants of the pile at the front. He, too, took his bag and coat without question, and hurried into the corridor.  
Girls number two: Carter, Samantha."  
Sam did not respond to her name. She had been gazing at the splatters of blood that lined her skirt. She had been standing directly behind Lindsay when she first received the blow, so the momentum of the impact had stained her clothes. She was now gazing at the body of her classmate, which was positioned in front of her, its tongue bloodied, and at an unnatural length. They had been friends. From the second that Lindsay had moved from America and was a stranger to her surroundings, up to the very Saturday before when the two of them chatted lengthily over the phone, they had become very close.  
"SAMANTHA CARTER! MOVE IT!" Jeyes barked at the crowd.  
Her eyes looked directly into those of her teacher's. She was filled with a rage she had never felt before in her life. She was beyond argue, reason, politics, all she wanted was revenge. She moved forward and picked her backpack from the ground. She walked past Jeyes and toward Meyer, who threw a secondary bag at her. Whatever was inside it felt heavy, she observed. As it hung loosely from her left hand, her schoolbag in her right, she had an idea. She wanted to hurt Jeyes with every ounce of strength in her body. She walked back over to him, looked up at him, (for she was quite short), yelled and swung both bags at his head. Both impacted either side of his temple and he reeled back against the table. Shepherd sprung forward and pounced on her; she wriggled to break free, but the man was too strong. She could not move her body for the weight of the man on her back. Jeyes was on his knees, taken by surprise at the attacks. Grunting viciously, he opened the drawer in the desk and pulled out what looked like a small remote control. He aimed it from below at Sam's neck and pressed the trigger.

Bleep.  
"That's so unlike you, Sam," said Jeyes, returning to his feet and looking at her again. "I always thought of you as more sensible than the sort to assault a teacher."  
Bleep.  
"Remember, class," he then reminded the other forty-four pupils. "I have the power to detonate your collars at any time, should you try and cause trouble or compromise the game's running in any way."  
Shepherd let go of Sam at this point, and she stood, grasping her collar self-consciously. She spun round to look at her classmates, all of whom edged back, looking at her throat fearfully.  
"What is this?" Sam yelled at her classmates.  
"Sam!" shouted several people instinctively. Jitinder Singh moved forward past Hope Castle to try and help her, but when she stared moving towards him, he remembered how the collar worked exactly and dodged her. A wave of understanding passed through the whole of 11D instantaneously: Sam's collar had been activated, and would explode imminently. A boy hollered and everyone tried to get as far away from Sam as they could manage, as if she was carrying some sort of terrible disease.  
"Let's not waste any more time, kids," said Jeyes calmly, playing the tape again.  
"Boys number three," continued the pre-recorded list of names, oblivious to the situation in the room. "Brooke, Graham."  
Bleep.  
"Graham," breathed Samantha, trying to plead with him. "Graham, don't go! Please! Help me! Do something, please..."  
Graham was startled as she grabbed him on the shoulder. To him, it was as if a corpse was trying to drag him down to Hell with it. He didn't see Samantha Carter, just a corpse-in-waiting. He shoved her to the ground, and ran out of the door with his bags. Samantha wailed, and sat up, her eyes watering.  
Bleep bleep bleep.  
The collar's beeping had upped in tempo, and Sam's desperation started afresh.  
"Somebody help me!"

"Girls number three: Castle, Hope."  
Bleep bleep bleep.  
"Sean..." Sam breathed, cantering toward the man who could be her saviour. "You'll help me, right? You've always worked with me on these things! You can help me, can't you?"  
Sampson shook his head, his eyes wide and afraid. He clutched the girl's hands, not to comfort her, but to make her loosen her painful grip on his jumper and shirt.  
Bleep bleep bleep. Hope ran unnoticed from the scene. Sam, realising her efforts with Sampson were futile, she tried each of her classmates in turn, all of whom rejected her with mingled fear and disgust.  
"Boys number four: Clarke, Thomas."  
Sam heard the video say Tom's name and she fixed her eyes on him like a bull. Tom himself had pressed himself against the back wall when Sam had tried to grab Graham, and now his name had been called, he was reluctant to move away from the relative comfort of the white plaster.  
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep...  
Sam's collar's beeping had not only increased in speed again, but was now higher in pitch. She grabbed hold of it again, trying in vain to remove it. Her eyes were fixed on the shorter of the two Toms, but she could no longer remember why. He was looking at her forlorn face, with equivalent sadness.  
"Thomas Clarke," called a man's voice from the front of the room. "Move it!"  
Tom couldn't keep still any longer. He skirted around the sides of the room, trying to keep as many people as he could between himself and the desperate girl in the middle of the room.  
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep...

Sam's mind was sharpened. She had to find a way to stop the game, to sabotage it. Perhaps she could cut the losses by convincing everybody to stay in the room! Her eyes linked with Tom's, whom she considered her final chance.  
"Tom," she breathed, barely audible. "Don't go. Wait, please-"  
Tom didn't stop. He just continued moving, head down, muttering to himself to ignore her. He had reached the body of Lindsay, and he wasn't sure of how to cross it. He felt nauseous. He decided to step over her face, not looking at its disfigurement. As he bent down to pick up his school bag from the pile, Sam saw her chance and pounced on him. Her collar beeping frantically, she beat and pounded Tom on the back as he struggled underneath her weight. He pushed her off him, and dipped sideways, where Meyer threw the bag at him. Sam's collar had now become a continuous tone. She looked at him from the centre of the room.  
"Tom," she said her voice filled with false calm. "Think about what you are about to do. You could end this now, and save everyone."  
The two students looked at one another. Short of a history project the year before, neither of them had much grounds to talk to the other. But in the short few seconds she had left on this Earth, Sam had said something so profound that Tom would take those words to the grave. As he looked at her, he knew that her collar would detonate at any moment, and his only plan of action would be to get as far away from her as he could manage. He slinked to the door and took a coat.  
"Tom!" Sam called at him, side-stepping to keep herself in his line of vision. She was shouting over the sound of the drone of the collar. There was only one thing left for her to do: physically stop him from leaving the room. She cantered sideways to apprehend him at the door, her left hand gripping her school jumper to brace herself for the inevitable.  
"Get away from me," Tom muttered under his breath, keeping his head down. "Don't come near me."  
"Come on, please! Don't run away from this now! Stand and fight for your-"  
Sam's neck was ripped open.

Charlotte Graves had been watching the events from near the window. She knew exactly what was going to happen, but was powerless to wrench her eyes away from her female classmate's neck. It was comparable to watching a house fire spread; the first warning signs are apparent, and although she felt she must do something, she was mesmerised by how events increased in intensity, and anticipated the destructive climax. The only difference was that in the event of a fire, emergency services could be rung to remedy the situation; here, anybody who was in a position to help Sam Carter was condoning the gruesome punishment, or on a broader level, not intervening in its development. When the detonation did occur, the only sounds in the room were the spray of blood and the squeak of Sam's shoes as she fell lifelessly to the floor with a thud. Charlotte was stunned by the pressure of blood that was erupting from her classmate's throat; it sprayed in a terrific arc that reached the crowd of students near the rear of the room, and created a deep scarlet pool around her body and near the wall. Tom Clarke himself had only heard the detonation, but because he was nearest to her at the time, the shower of red soaked his clothes and hair. Samantha Carter tumbled, her bloodied throat discharging in a horrific radius, matting her short hair and staining her skin, her eyes gazing lifelessly at the door.  
_Girls #2 Carter, dead. 47 remaining._  
Too late, a knot of her close friends, three girls who had been standing close to Charlotte Graves, dashed forward to their fallen friend, and frantically started calling her name. Steph Green stood alongside Sophie Easton and Natasha Timbershire; all of whom had tears welling in their eyes. They all felt guilty, as none of them had helped their friend in her hour of need. Considering all she had done for the class, they had abandoned her when she needed their solidarity the most. Steph in particular seemed devastated. It had been just a day and a half since the two of them had entered Jitinder Singh's father's shop and talked enthusiastically about their plans for the upcoming week. They had enjoyed each other's company; the two girls had known one another since the age of four, and now Samantha was dead. Her parents were probably unaware of their daughter's demise, and may not even hear anything until the morning, possibly later.  
Jitinder was also watching the scene. He was too shell-shocked by the collar's eruption and Sam's killing that his mind had not connected the two events as being related. His mind was in fragments; he saw a body with blood flowing freely out of it, and he knew that Samantha was dead. He knew that it was the collars that explode, and that Samantha had been wearing a collar that had been triggered by the treacherous teacher at the front. All these events seemed independent of one another, somehow. His mind was working too slowly; it seemed to be regressing, his brain was thinking back to words they had exchanged just the previous day, as he was hurrying out of the shop:  
_"Will you stay here until I see you again?"  
"Of course; I'm not going far, am I, huh?"_  
He choked back emotion as the room mourned its latest loss.

Jeyes was watching the scene from the front of the room. He was satisfied with the death, and decided to capitalise on it.  
"All other resistance will be treated in the same way," he explained calmly to the forty-two members of 11D still in the room. "Make sure the message gets to the guys who aren't here."  
Tom was gaping at the scene from the doorway. He had frozen when he felt the blood hit his face, and stood horrified, the eruption echoing in his ears. He suddenly felt he was being stared at; he made eye contact with Jeyes and ran out of the room, in a panic. He did not want to die like that.  
"Girls number four," said the video, unaffected by the traumatic death of the girl. "Daniels, Alice."  
Alice moved away from the metallic wall, and walked through Lindsay's blood. The room was an obstacle course, avoiding the blood from the corpses and the pool of vomit sitting grossly on the floor was a challenge in itself. Alice's brow was furrowed, as she thought carefully. She had wanted to help Samantha, but chose not to out of self-preservation. She wanted to make amends, but didn't know how to do so. She caught her bag neatly, waved anxiously to her friends, took her standard-issue coat and watch, and walked out of the room.  
"Boys number five: Drake, David."  
Dave's eyes flitted nervously at the men at the front of the room. As he bent down to take his bag, he suddenly felt anxious. He was agile and sharp-witted, but would that be enough. Alice had just left the room. If he hurried, he would be able to catch up with her. She wouldn't hurt a fly. He took his coat from the hook, and with his issued bag under his arm, dashed down the corridor.  
"Girls number five," continued the video's roll call. "Easton, Sophie."  
Sophie Easton sobbed when her name was called out. She hugged Steph and Natashe goodbye, and advanced to collect her belongings, skidding clumsily on the fresh blood at her feet. She caught a bag and noticed that it was one of the ones with bin liner protruding from the end, concealing a stick of some form. Whatever was inside did not feel heavy; it seemed like most of the weight was from the bottles of water. Tears flowing freely down her cheeks, she dragged her coat listlessly behind her, and disappeared from sight. Her friends called after her, but there was no reply.

The roll call continued.  
"Boys number six: Dunn, Ian."  
Ian Dunn licked his lips anxiously as he walked forward to collect his weapon. His eyes met with Jeyes', who saw with some satisfaction that the argumentativeness of the boy seemed to have disappeared. Though Ian knew there was nothing he could do to prevent the game from proceeding, he still wasn't prepared to give up without a fight. He grabbed a watch between his teeth and hurried away, his feet banging noisily on the floor.  
"Girls number six: Edwards, Julia."  
Julia's face was set. She walked forward confidently past Charlotte, her dyed blonde hair neatly running down her back, revealing no sign that she had been lying unconscious on a floor for several hours. She left the room without speaking. Charlotte had a certain admiration for Julia, there was a courage present she could only dream of emulating. Charlotte brushed her plaits and realised with a chill that her name would soon be called. She then decided that when it was called, she would just charge away from the building and find somewhere safe to hide.  
"Boys number seven: Fraser, Robert."  
The seventh boy summoned forth had been rubbing his arms as he perched on the windowsill. He felt very cold, his oiled overalls inappropriate to the January chill. He did not have a school bag, of course, having been abducted from work, so went directly to take his weapon. Like Sophie Easton, his protruded from the bag and was wrapped in a black liner. Robert took a coat and watch, and decided to get away from the building, and seek shelter somewhere else.  
"Girls number seven: Fennell, Martina."  
Martina had been very quiet throughout the whole procedure. She was partly still recovering from the anaesthesia, but also seemed lost for words. She wanted to go back to school. At least there nobody would be forced to kill anyone else. Why her? She was not disruptive. Sure, she had laughed when David Vales had planted the trap the previous Friday, but this was totally inappropriate. She took her weapon (it seemed to fill the bag in length, like a rifle), and hurried away, trying not to think about the imminent horrors she may face.

The room suddenly seemed emptier. People seemed to be adjusting to the smell of spilled blood, and were getting over the initial shock of the killings of the two girls lying at opposite sides of the room. Many of the thirty-four remaining members of 11D were watching the light on the wall that had turned red once again as Martina reached the far end of the corridor.  
"Boys number eight," the list continued. "Garretty, Adam."  
Adam looked at Sampson helplessly and charged forward, treading in the pool of vomit. He swore and shook his foot a little. Pushing his spectacles back up his nose, he took his various belongings from the front of the room and vanished. William Hutchinson started squirming on the spot; he was the next boy after Adam alphabetically, which meant his turn would be next. As the tape called forth 'Fletcher, Lydia', he realised he badly needed to urinate, making him fidget even more. Lydia Fletcher left the room, presumably to find Lena Amornie.  
"Boys number nine: Hutchinson, William."  
Will slid forth and picked up his bag and weapon. He felt the issued bag, but could not distinguish anything in the bag immediately recognisable as a weapon. He looked over his shoulder at the soldier, Shepherd, as he bent down to take his coat from the floor. The soldier remained resolute, apparently unfazed by the atrocity that he had helped commit when he held Sam Carter in place. William walked out of the room and entered the corridor slowly. Like the room he had just left, it was white and had a sterile smell about it. He did not want to walk too quickly; he felt like he wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as he could. Lining the corridor were a smattering of soldiers, none of whom seemed to make any form of acknowledgement of the boy in front of them. The corridor seemed to be stretching on forever, so Will sped up a little. He reached the doors at the end, and felt something underneath his feet. It felt like a panel, possibly the one that activated the light in the other room, he thought. This was realised when he heard the tape call, 'Graves, Charlotte,' into the game.  
William stepped outside. It was snowing quite heavily, though there wasn't any wind to speak of. The exterior of the building seemed surrounded by gravel and paving, with few trees or shrubs nearby. He took in his surroundings, and realised how the weather added a touch of added mystery to the situation. He fumbled in his bag, wondering what the weapon was. He was doing so carefully, in case it had a sharp object within. His hand landed on something thin and pointed, which seemed sturdy to the touch. He pulled it out, and realised he was grasping the heel of a red stiletto-heeled shoe.  
"What the heck?" The words issued from his mouth a little louder than he would have liked and feeling uneasy, as if people were staring at him, he decided to move away quickly, and was about to do so when something grabbed his attention. There was a soft moaning from somewhere nearby. He looked on the ground and saw a dark mass shuffling across the ground toward him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night, he saw that it was a person. A boy. The scrubby dark hair, plump facial features and glasses indicated it was Ian Dunn.  
"Ian," said Will, horrified. "What happened?"  
Ian seemed to be having trouble breathing.  
"Over... over there..." wheezed Ian, Will tried to help his classmate up, but Ian was rigid and weighty. He put his friend down, and noticed that a bullet hole was in the boy's chest, seemingly puncturing the lung. It seemed Ian's warning had taken a lot of his ailing strength, as when he was put back down, he closed his eyes and stopped feeling the pain.  
Will was frantic. He did not know what to do; a classmate had just died on him, which meant that already somebody was killing people. His only clue was where Ian had indicated, which was near some trees. Gazing over, he saw with a pang what looked like another corpse on the ground, that of a girl. His plan of fleeing the building was abandoned; he stared moving over to where the girl lay, her straight blonde hair over her face, when he heard a rustling from beside him. Tom Clarke materialised from behind one of the thicker trees, saw the red shoes in William's hand, apologised, and shot him twice through the heart.

Charlotte had been the next person to depart after William Hutchinson. True to herself, she tore up the corridor, a bag in each hand, determined to flee the scene. As she reached the top of the corridor, though, she decided she should find out what her weapon was. She slid round the corner from the door, and put her hands into her bag. She placed her hands on the cold weight of a machine gun of some sort, though she didn't know the make, of course. As she ran her fingers over the body of it, it suddenly dawned on her what she would be forced to do with it. She vowed not to use it unless absolutely necessary. As she thought this, she heard two gunshots from nearby. Her eyes were readjusting to the dark again, but her hearing was clear: the shots were coming from close-by, virtually straight ahead from where she was standing currently. She had to make a quick decision: either run round the corner and flee altogether, or find out who was firing the shots. At any rate, as she pulled out the gun to defend herself, the torch came out as well, and landed on the floor with a clatter. Shit.  
She bent down to pick it up, and heard a gunshot narrowly miss her, hitting the wall just to the left of where her head had been. She shoved the torch in her bag and tried to move away from the gunman. The assailant was murderous. His strategy seemed to be to pick people off as they left the building, before they had the chance to defend themselves. Another gunshot zipped to her right, she dipped, trying to see her attacker clearly. As he moved forward, a light source hit the relief of his face. She took aim and mowed the small boy down in a shower of bullets. She walked over to him, seemingly leaving her stomach behind her, and looked down on his face. Tom Clarke did not appear to be moving any more. She had murdered someone; there was no going back now. She took the gun from his hand, found some ammunition dropped from his other hand, and fled the scene, tripping over the body of Sophie Easton, whose braided brown hair was punctured by a bullet hole through her brain. Charlotte screamed, and ran, barely noticing the bodies of Julia Edwards, William Hutchinson and Ian Dunn, the three of which seemed to be forming a line spanning several yards.

The next person to leave the room had been Edward Jones. He held his girlfriend Chrissie Saxon's hand, and took his possessions. As he neared the end of the corridor, he was still hoping it was some form of elaborate stunt, but the sound of machine gun fire just outside the door persuaded him not to take any chances. He slowed down and looked outside. It was do or die. He hurtled out of the room and breathed the cold air. Immediately he was greeted with the sound of a girl screaming in the near-distance. He saw Tom's crumpled body to his left. Somebody was killing people already! He veered to the right and headed in that direction. More bodies! Boys and girls were over the ground, and the killer was probably still out there, picking people off one by one. Eddie decided he wasn't taking any chances. He turned a corner and ran as fast as he could.  
Tom was dying. He could feel the weight of the lead inside his body pressing down on his heart, and the faces of his four killings bearing down on his soul. He was done for, he knew it. He knew Charlotte had been the one to shoot him, he recognised her blonde plaits as she took the Beretta 9mm gun from his hand, but at least the burden was off him now. Lying still, he could feel waves of fatigue running over his body, soon to force him into submission and end his life. He had tried his best. He felt cold, as the snow continued to pour over his face, dampening it slowly. He wondered what happened after death. If there were such a thing as life after death, he hoped he might be able to see his victims and apologise to all of them. He had shot Dave Drake first, but the aim was poor, and he managed to escape his attacker with a minor injury. Sophie and Julia were both easy targets. He felt bad, killing the girls, but there again he felt bad about killing altogether. The suffering he must have put Ian through was unthinkable.  
He decided not to think about it. What was done was done. He was done, too. He closed his eyes and decided to think about Samantha. She was brave about her impending death. He was another of the boys who secretly admired her inner strength. He reflected on some of her final words to him.  
"Tom. Think about what you are about to do. You could end this now, and save everyone."  
She had said them so calmly, yet she must have been terrified, knowing she would probably be dead within a minute. As Tom heard another set of feet leave the building nearby, he closed his eyes and was finally relieved of his burdens.  
_Girls #5 Easton, #6 Edwards; dead.  
Boys #4 Clarke, #6 Dunn, #9 Hutchinson; dead. 42 remaining._


	9. The Three Of Us

The roll call from the room continued steadily, with only one further interruption. Near the end, after "Boys number twenty-four: Vales, David" had been summoned forth and departed as ordered, Melissa Williams was the only student left in the room. The light in the room went red one more time, and then the video called out:  
"Girls number twenty-four: Vaughan, Lindsay."  
But Lindsay was dead, dead and forgotten as she lay on the floor, the blood starting to dry and crust on the floor, making the putrid smell in the room even more infernal.  
There was a silence in the room, as the Melissa, the teacher Jeyes, and the two soldiers looked at the corpse of the first student to fall. Jeyes looked up at Melissa.  
"Was she a friend of yours?" he asked, his voice calm, his glance strong.  
"No," said Melissa quietly, looking defiantly at the man who murdered two of her classmates just minutes earlier.  
"Then don't shed a tear for her," Jeyes concluded, before pressing the play button on the video one final time.  
"Girls number twenty-five," said the woman firmly, indicative of the fact she had finished the list of names. "Williams, Melissa."  
Melissa grabbed her personal bag, the only one remaining, from her feet, and walked quickly to the front, wanting to leave the room as quickly as she could. The soldier Meyer threw a bag at her; she missed it, as her hands were both clutching her own one. She picked it up and slung it over her shoulder, then turned right to head out of the room, nearly forgetting her coat on the way out. Like so many of her comrades felt before her, the passageway that led to the exit seemed to stretch for an eternity. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the main doors, not daring to guess how many of more members of 11D had already fallen.  
The air was crisp and chilling. She shuddered slightly as the snow fell thickly on her surroundings. Even though her wristwatch said the time was now ten past two, Melissa was awake, alert, and could see through the black sky, her sight facilitated by the full moon's glow reflected on the snowy layer on the ground. Trying to get her bearings somewhat, she opened her weapons bag and looked for her map. At the bottom, she felt something cold and hard, but she wasn't interested in that at the moment. She found the laminated paper and torch, and read her map carefully. According to this, she was positioned at F-6. Her boyfriend Harry whispered to her that he was heading east. Whether this meant G-6 or H-6 was anybody's guess. There was no scale on the map, either, which meant that even if they were in the same square, the two of them could be some way away from each other. Her eyes chanced upon something lying on the ground. She had been pacing about on the spot, her eyes fixed firmly on the map, serenely unaware of her surroundings. It was the body of William Hutchinson, lying lifelessly on the ground. She shone her torch on him, and saw with revulsion that he had two bullet holes in his chest. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She wondered who had dared do such a horrid thing to the boy when she felt a cold hand clasp her shoulder. 

Jitinder Singh was heading west. His bag on his shoulder, he only had one thing on his mind. Before he did so, though, he wanted to meet at least one of Sam Carter's friends, and give them his condolences. He stood in the room, watching the scene as the three girls huddled around the body, all of them shaking in shock. He wanted to help them, to comfort them, but felt uncomfortable doing so because he feared for his life.  
Now he was away from the oppressive ambience of the room, his mind was cleared and he felt a lot more objective about the matter. He was still upset of course; he had liked Sam a lot, but he needed all the strength and resolve he could muster for what he intended to do, so he concluded that, even though there was death occurring all around him, he needed to stay strong, to prove something to himself, to respect her death in the only he way he knew how.  
He glanced at his watch, the screen glowed that the time was approximately two-fifteen. He had been walking for just over ten minutes, he reasoned, and he re-checked his compass. If he was correct, then he may already be in D-6. Looking at his map, Jitinder seemed confident that that was indeed his location; there were industrial buildings to the south that indicated the near end of the harbour. He was suddenly stuck with a dilemma: should he risk going entering the docks to look for the girls, or should he just stay away from buildings altogether? He shuddered in his cashmere coat, which was lined with a white rim across his shoulders. He decided he would go south after all. He kept his mind open to alternatives all the time; the main one being to turn and run away at any moment. He ventured south. His torch was held at arm's length. He was slightly unsure what he would do if he were ambushed. He was not a very fast runner, and certainly was not agile enough to dodge any persistent attackers. His weapon was useless (he had paused a few minutes earlier to check, and his face fell when he saw he had been issued with face paints), and he certainly wasn't the most popular of people in 11D. Though he denied it with every ounce of his resolve, he had few people he could truly count as being a true friend, and of those that he could, probably half were deemed as freaks by the rest of the class, so were possibly potential targets. Due to a phase that most of the students went through several years beforehand, the phase of racism for the fun of it, Jitinder resented himself. He hated being a Sikh, hated his family's traditions, and hated his very heritage. He never recovered fully from this nihilism, even when the jibes stopped. Jitinder paused. He was unsure about whether he wanted to venture further down this route. He had a strange sensation, almost a sixth sense, that something bad was going to happen here soon, and that there would be bloodshed. He was already dead. He could feel it. The issue of when he was going to die exactly seemed unimportant, like a formality observed by the doctor who eventually closes the eyes of a terminally ill patient in his care. It seemed like even the sky itself was sobbing faintly at the impending massacre, there was a weeping noise carrying on the wind, accompanying the snowfall. Jitinder rubbed his frozen ears and scanned the area with his torch. He hadn't been imagining it: somebody nearby was definitely crying.

It was Harry Smith. Melissa was startled when she felt his hand upon her shoulder, but after taking in his features, she gasped away her fright, and kissed him gently on the lips. His wide face had a broad smile on it, one that seemed to breathe reassurance back into her body. "You waited for me," she said to him. There was no definable emotion behind this comment; it was a plain statement of fact.  
"Of course," Harry said, his large lips kissing his girlfriend reassuringly once more. "I knew I had to wait for you. The second I realised nobody was lurking around the exit, I figured I should chance it."  
Her eyes were wide, her mind thinking carefully about his choice of words.  
"When you realised nobody was lurking? What made you think that?"  
Dreading his answer, she frowned slightly, and pulled her head back. Harry said nothing, but swept his arm round, indicating the bodies scattered over the ground. From where they were stood, Melissa could see the body of Sophie Easton, its face staring upwards, oblivious to the world.  
"Oh, my God, I knew about Will, but..." Melissa made movements towards the girl's body. "What happened to her?"  
"Someone picked her off when she was leaving the building," Harry hypothesised. "I've counted five bodies in this area."  
Melissa noticed Harry's voice trailed off into sadness at the end of this statement, and she wondered why this was so. At the same time, her eyes were scanning the ground, registering an increasing number of bodies. Her stomach churned. "How could somebody do this?" whispered the girl. "Who could live with themselves, killing everybody off like this? It's so cowardly, I can't understand it..."  
"Neither can I," said Harry, deciding to share his grief. "They got Little Tom, as well."  
Melissa moaned and she hugged Harry firmly. The two boys had been friends. Although she personally was not close to Tom, she felt bad for her boyfriend, knowing how much he must be hurting. For a few minutes neither of them spoke, neither of them wishing to let go of the other. Then Melissa muttered the question brewing in the back of her mind.  
"Where are we going to go now?"  
"I saw Ben before I turned back to come here; he seemed to have been waiting for me," Harry said, his mind suddenly taking a reprieve from mourning. "He didn't want to come back here, because of all of the... all of the bodies. But he said he'd be in H-6 somewhere. If not there, then he'd probably head east to the cliffs"  
"The three of us, then."  
"Well," Harry said, slightly cynically, "it would be the three of us, yeah, but I think Ben said he saw James turning and running in that direction through that window, so I don't know, in honesty"  
Melissa said nothing, but smiled politely. She didn't like James much, and Harry was quite aware of that. The idea of spending what could be her last few days on Earth with a boy like that was not very comforting. But she was prepared to be friends with him, albeit by proxy.  
"Should we go there now, or do something first"  
"Like what?"  
"Like..." Melissa's voice trailed off and she looked at Julia's body once again. She noticed the issued bag nearby, and an idea crossed her mind. "Like, taking some weapons... from them"  
Harry smiled apologetically. "You wouldn't want Julia's; I've checked: she got a rubber chicken."  
Melissa snorted, acknowledging the comic value of this, even in the bleak climate.  
"What about the others?"  
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Sophie got a golf club, Ian over there had what I think were knuckle dusters, and Will had some shoes. Oh, and I got a frying pan," he added as an afterthought.  
Melissa took in these names and their weapons, as her mind wrestled between the two opposing forces of compassion and survival. She looked at Tom's corpse, which was closest to the building of the five of them. Harry hadn't said what his weapon was, meaning he didn't know. Saying nothing, she went over to the body, which was lying still, and had a relatively calm expression on its face, in spite of the fact its body was riddled with holes. There was no bag in sight. A discrepancy crossed her mind: Julia's body and this one. Julia had a single gunshot to the head, whereas this one had a number of holes in its body, which implied that Tom had been gunned down with a machine gun of some form. Saying nothing, incubating a theory, she walked across to the other bodies and inspected them. They too had injuries like Julia's, seemingly from a handgun, and certainly not from machine gun fire. Melissa was forced to draw a conclusion: Tom had been murdered by a different gun to the other four people on the ground, so was probably killed by someone other than the assailant who shot Will, Ian, Julia and Sophie. "Where's Tom's bag?" Melissa asked softly, only to be greeted by a murmured, 'dunno' from her boyfriend. She saw two bags behind a bush; one was an issued bag, and the other was somebody's personal bag. She had no desire to go through someone's personal items, so she examined the weapons bag, only to find it devoid of a weapon. Somewhere, there was one weapon missing from the scene. There was a discrepancy here, and she could sense its nature. Not wanting to upset her boyfriend, though, she kept it to herself, and after taking the knuckle dusters from Ian's bag (she decided that they could be useful, somehow), Melissa returned to her waiting boyfriend, and the two of them stayed close, and travelled to H-6 together.

Emma Harris, Emma Newton and Paula MacNeill were travelling together. The three girls had met one another again out of chance, and decided to stay together as a unit. Safety in numbers: that was the best strategy, right?  
Emma Harris led the way. She had been issued the best weapon: a handgun, and because she was the smallest, it followed logically that she would be the hardest person to hit, should they be attacked by hostiles. This was the theory put forward by the other Emma, a taller girl with messy, straggled hair, though she didn't deny that it was just an excuse for her to stay at the back. She was not sold by her weapon, a bottle of chloroform, but it sat in her bag as she took a swig of water to rehydrate. It also allowed her to busy her mouth and avoid making conversation with her two fellow travellers. Paula wasn't much in the mood for speaking either. Her mind was on the savagery of what she had witnessed happen to the two girls in the other room, particularly the violent tongue-wrenching, of which she still had gruesome images flashing across her retinas. She ambled alongside the two Emmas, walking perhaps a little too close to their sides. She was paranoid of the shadows. She could feel the eyes of her entire class staring at her from the darkness coming from all angles, all watching for a weak moment. Paula had felt inside her bag to learn what her weapon was, and her heart fell when she discovered a couple of razor blades. If she had to kill a friend, she thought (as this seemed to be what would be expected of her), then she had hoped ideally for a gun; somehow the concept of an impersonal murder was considerably easier on her conscience. "Wait," said Newton sharply. "Where are we going?"  
"Let's check the map," suggested the other Emma, her breath lingering before her in the frigid air.  
The three of them fumbled in their bags, and after a small amount of debate, agreed they were in F-5, the base of the small mountain on their right. They were slightly confused because they had felt they had been walking for longer than this. "That's weird," muttered Harris. "We should have gone further than this, seeing as we've only stopped once so far"  
"Yeah..." Paula brushed the newest layer of snow from her hair and returned her cold hand to her pocket. "Where are we going to go?"  
For a few moments nobody spoke; the three girls looked at one another uneasily, as all of them had expected one of their comrades to have some form of strategem. The usual person to ask for suggestions on practical strategies was Emma Newton, but presently her eyes were shut, her nose wrinkled, a pained look on her face. Harris and Paula looked at their friend in alarm, wondering what had happened to her, when suddenly their curiosity was resolved by Newton's violent sneeze. Paula smiled in relief; she had thought that something dreadful had happened, but it just seemed that Emma had caught a cold.  
"We can't stay out here," she said, receiving nods from her companions.  
"Well where though?" Harris seemed slightly put out, like she was repeating an obvious question, and was still unaware of the answer.  
"If we head north-west over those plains," said Newton slowly, her nose seemingly fighting back another sneeze, "we could probably reach the outskirts of that village at C-3. We should find a house and shack up for a bit."  
Neither of the other girls seemed to have any objections to this happening. In Harris' view, the sooner they were in shelter, the better, so the group of three continued their trek. Paula's mind was drifting again, only now she was thinking about her father. He would have been notified of her plight. But what had happened to her dad after he was told? Instantly, her mind began racing through a hundred scenarios, none of which were pleasant, regarding the way they would have silenced him. For she knew he wouldn't let his daughter go without a fight. Fearing the worst, her mind's eye gazed on her dad's dead body, murdered because he loved his daughter. Her mind's eye shifted its gaze; now he was sitting awake, wrapped in a blanket, tense, unable to sleep, too worried about her wellbeing to move. It shifted again: he was dead on the floor again, a hole in his forehead. And again: he was committing suicide, to be with his daughter. Once more: he was now gripping a photo album, gazing at the still images of his happiness, the only sounds in the room being the clock on the fireplace and his deep, racking sobs. Paula stumbled on a stone, and was aware of her walking once more. All these images of her father were haunting her mind. She had to know exactly what had happened to him. She needed to see him again. It was like a fire was burning in her mind. The love she felt for him now was stronger than ever before. She would see him again; comfort his sorrows, for she couldn't allow him to grieve like that. She would see him again; they could recover from the Program's effect, learn to smile and love again, taking every second of life with thanks. She would see him again; she would leave this island a winner. Even though that meant she would first have to...

Jitinder Singh was still closer to the crying figure; it was a girl, though with the darkness and her hiding her head between her knees it was difficult to determine who it was. The girl was holding a length of chain, one made from thick steel, which looked both strong and purposeful at once. He stepped closer still, and something crunched under foot; the girl looked up at Jitinder, seemingly unaware of his approach until that point.  
He had been staring at Stephanie Green. She was looking back at him with two red patched eyes, clearly visible from where she had been sobbing. Alarmed, she edged back, holding the length of chain tensely between her hands, part of the end dangling down from her clasp. She had no idea whether or not Jitinder was a threat to her. She had often felt he never really liked her much, but in these circumstances, even that gut feeling could be magnified into a manifestation strong enough to destroy lives. "What do you want?" she asked him, trying to speak with a steady voice.  
Jitinder had taken a step back when Steph brandished the chain at him. He had succeeded in finding one of the girls, though he had underestimated the rawness of her emotions.  
He struggled to find the right words. Now he had found Steph, he discovered his voice box was choked.  
"What do you want?" she repeated, a little more forcefully.  
"I... I'm sorry," Jitinder began. "I'm sorry about what happened to Sam."  
Her face changed immediately at these words; instead of being hostile to her classmate, she suddenly felt emotionally bonded to him. He knew how she was feeling, and he had just said exactly the thing she needed to hear. He wasn't a threat; she realised this now. Rather, he was a like mind, somebody who still valued his humanity, and what made him a civilised being. She dropped the chain immediately and cried into his shoulder. He held her sympathetically, not knowing what else to do other than offer comfort. She wasn't a threat; he understood that he had made the right decision. Tears were welling inside Jitinder's chest as he thought of Sam looking down upon the two of them; their group of three, just one day earlier, had been sitting together with hearts full of frivolty. Now one of their number was dead, and the survivors, broken. Steph broke apart from their embrace, and looked at Jitinder, her eyes bleary in the cold.  
"So then," she asked, looking slightly anxious. "What are we going to do now?"


	10. Coupling

Only three people in 11D did not know anything about the grisly death of Samantha Carter. Her predecessors were all running in their own directions, hoping to get as far away from the base as they could. With every minute that passed, they knew that their classmates were distributing themselves across the breadth of the island, and there was every chance that the first person whom they encountered would be deadly. Tom Billings for one was running, hoping desperately that he could avoid doing what was being asked of him.

James Aldridge was still in denial about the entire situation. He continued moving, but there was absolutely no reason why he should be so scared, in his view. He was still desperately clinging to the idea that at any moment a truck would drive past and collect the scattered students and take them back to somewhere comfortable. He was obliged to stop moving for a moment, and folded in two, wheezing, his breath caught. He was too unfit to move about like this. In addition, his body clock was completely thrown; though it was clearly the middle of the night, he felt alert (or as alert as he could be expected to feel after being sedated for nearly nine hours; how they had managed to do this without getting at least one student to fall into a coma was remarkable, too). His mind was laced with delusions, which criss-crossed and blended into one another, forming a rich array of self-deceptions, a defence mechanism he had created unconsciously to defend himself from the truth. In a word: denial.  
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of water, and took a deep swig, his breath snorting over the rim. This was all a big trick; it had to be. But what if other people had fallen for it too, like he himself had almost done? What would happen if somebody actually did try to kill another of their fellows? Worse still, what if they succeeded? James tried to get his bearings, as he had been moving aimlessly, and had no idea whatsoever of where he was at that moment in time. His eyes scanned the surroundings, but he could not see anything noteworthy that he could use as a possible landmark. It was stupid of him to have run off aimlessly into the darkness. He fumbled in his bag again and put his hand upon the torch. He clicked the button and started scanning the landscape once more. His heart fell: there were still no clues on his location.  
With his other hand he drank a bit more of the water, trying to listen into the silence. This was all a big trick; he was now convinced. But where was everybody? This feeling of isolation combined with his thoughts of vulnerability, and he decided he should look in his bag, to see if it helped solve some of his questions. Yet before he could reach into his bag one more time, he suddenly had the impression that he was not alone after all. He froze, and sure enough, there was the trampling sound of footsteps approaching him. Clutching the bag to his chest, he turned to face the sound, wondering what he should do. It was all a big trick, after all. Yet as his eyes tried to identify the boy approaching him, he was blinded by the intense light that was being shone into his face.

Lena had been running at breakneck speed. From her departure, she had turned left, and ran in a large anti-clockwise spiral, expanding from the centre, the base from which she had just fled. She was currently resting in a cave in the southwest of the island, her body recovered from the fatigue of running so far, so fast.  
Although she was not a popular person, Lena always took part in various sports and activities. She was the tallest girl in the class, Standing at over six feet tall, and was always a choice for hockey and netball, her height working to her advantage, and guaranteeing her position on the athletics team each summer as the school's long jump champion. Those legs that sprung her to victory so often were currently throbbing under the strain of the running; she had not felt this pain at the time due to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Lena rubbed her forehead, and dragged her hand down her face. It was a fearsome face; she had a sharp, angular nose that teamed well with her steely brown eyes, sleek, black hair and thin lips. It was a face that commanded power, one that emanated pride, with hints of Eastern European decent in its structure. Lena did have ancestors from east Europe; her grandmother was from Serbia, and her great-grandmother was Turkish. Everyone on Lena's mother's side of the family always remarked on how much the girl looked like her grandmother: beautiful, yet authoritarian. In spite of Lena's Balkan heritage, she actually saw herself as being more Italian, as this was were her father had been born. Rocco Amornie and his parents moved to London when he was nine, and sixteen years later, he was married to a girl called Agniezska, who was pregnant with his daughter. Lena liked to think of herself as having the best mixture of genes from around Europe, and few people would dare to argue anything to the contrary.  
She was sitting on a protruding slab of rock, a QSZ-92 handgun between her palms. She gazed at it, marvelling at its shape and presence. She had never seen a gun before, let alone held one. It was mesmerising; she had received a good weapon, one that could make the difference between life and death. She sucked in the frigid air and looked up. The roof of the cave was quite low, perhaps nine feet above the floor; at any rate, she could have stood on the rock she was on at the moment and been incapable of standing upright. It seemed an ideal refuge, somewhere where she could stay for a few hours, perhaps until the sun came up, as it was quite inconspicuous to the casual eye, especially in the dark. Though it overlooked the beach, the cave was elevated above sea level slightly, which meant it was relatively dry inside. Wondering whether the tide was coming in or going out, Lena looked over the beach, and saw a dark line across the length of it. She assumed that this was where the water had reached, and that it was going out once more. The time was half past two, according to the watch on her wrist. Everyone would be out, playing the game. Lena never felt vulnerable. Ever. She instead thought about those few people who mattered to her. Lydia and Sampson were both out now, she presumed, trying to either establish their safety, or to seek shelter alone. It was even conceivable that either of them would be looking for Lena herself.  
Figuring that she would be safe until daybreak, Lena moved toward the back of the cave and decided to get some rest. Her mind shifted away from her two closest friends, to somebody else she quite liked: Harry Smith. She respected Harry a lot, partly because she had known him for many years, and appreciated the pressure that he was under with his mother's obligatory vice. She also liked his fairness and the way he would always like to make informed decisions before passing judgement on a person. Yes, she reflected, if the unthinkable were to happen and she was to die, she would like Harry to win. He was a worthy winner in her mind. Lena fidgeted on the dusty floor, contemplating what she would have to do to survive. Kill. That was a given, she realised, but what would be the best strategy? Should she go it alone, or protect herself by commanding a small group of people? The more she dwelled on it, the more she came to accept that there was no simple formula to win; the very nature of success depended entirely upon the actions of every student in the entire class. She closed her eyes, her body curled up, hidden behind the rocks. Lena wanted rest, but she knew that she would probably not sleep right now. The sea was loud, the tide roaring with every cycle. Lena lay with her eyes shut, thinking about her boyfriend.

Harry and Melissa were moving east. They were going to try and find Ben Portwood, their friend, and possibly his friend, James. Melissa was a little reluctant to meet the other two boys; her main excuse was that she was unsure about whether or not she trusted them, but the truth was she just didn't like either of them that much. Harry had stopped listening to these complaints a while ago, knowing that he needed to focus on where he was going. He had met with Ben moments after he had left the building. Ben wanted the two of them to go somewhere well hidden, but Harry had refused to leave Melissa alone. In his mind, he had promised to look after her once Samantha had been killed, and this sentiment was enforced when he left the building, and saw the bodies lying everywhere. He had moved quickly away from the scene, in case their killer was still present, but shortly before reaching Ben, he realised this was improbable; Lucy Shale had left the room immediately before him, and because she was injured, she would have been an easy target. Harry concluded that if she had managed to get away unscathed, the scene must have been clear. He had returned to the scene, and watched Natasha Timbershire and David Vales go their separate ways. It was then that he decided to check his bag and felt his face fall when his hands landed upon the very large frying pan. Assuming the coast was still clear, Harry moved out of his position, and checked the bags of the deceased.  
Melissa's mind was dull as she attempted to follow her boyfriend. She was carrying her switchknife in her hand, closed, her head moving from side to side as she perused the dark landscape. The couple were travelling because Harry judged Ben to be a trustworthy accomplice. Although Melissa did not believe Ben was any kind of threat of course, she did have reservations about Harry's judgement. One thing she had learned about her boyfriend was that he had a very fatalistic mindset. He often seemed to think that bad things that happened were supposed to happen, and that was just the way life went. Even something as profound as this Battle Royale they were currently in was probably some form of twisted destiny. She wondered what Harry was thinking about the Program, and whether this may persuade him to reconsider his mentality, even at such a late stage. She was also worried that he was not thinking in enough depth about matters, and that his heart was clouding his judgement. Melissa was convinced that Tom Clarke had been the one to kill the other four students outside the building to the west. She had deduced this from simply examining the wounds on their bodies, and that Tom's were different to the other four's. Her belief on the matter was compounded by the map which, when she had looked at it with Harry, showed that the other four victims left the building shortly after Tom himself had. Tom was dead, and Tom was a killer. Melissa knew this, but she still could not bring the matter up with her boyfriend. She wondered whether or not he had deduced this either, but she didn't ask, as she dreaded the answer slightly. As hers was the better weapon, it was up to her to protect them if anybody decided to attack. She was scared of this responsibility, but was prepared to do what she had to do.

"Who's there?"  
James was peering from behind his palm, trying to distinguish the identity of the person currently blinding him; after a few moments, the torch was switched off, and the other boy approached him. With the light out of his eyes, James recognised the silhouette with ease. It was Ben.  
"Ben, thank God," said James, a little breathless. "Have you come to take me back?"  
Ben looked at his red-haired friend with confusion.  
"Sorry," Ben said politely, "I don't understand what you mean."  
The two boys were standing on the western side of H-6, a couple of silhouettes sketched against the greyish sky. James put his bag on the floor, and persisted with his delusions.  
"I mean to say," he said, his voice desperately anticipating an affirmation, "it is all a big joke, right? This is one huge set-up, and we don't have to kill anyone at all? That's right, isn't it? You're here to take me back, so everyone can go home, yeah?"  
Ben said absolutely nothing, but stared blankly at his friend's face, completely amazed by the level of denial. James looked at Ben, waiting for a reply, and bounced on his heels nervously when none came. He decided to try a different approach.  
"These collars," he began, inspired by Ben's neck. "They don't explode. How can they? It's a fantasy. There's no way in which it could happen, right? I mean, think about it: bread and water? And weapons? It's all a big hoax!"  
Ben scowled at the tactlessness of his friend. How could he be so stupid and cruel, forgetting Sam's death like that? Then a thought struck him.  
"James, you left the room first didn't you?" The bespectacled redhead nodded whilst fingering his collar. "You didn't see what happened after you left, did you?"  
James shook his head, but had begun yanking his collar.  
"What are you doing?" Ben yelled, yanking his friend's hand away. "For your information, that will explode if you're not careful."  
James wondered why his friend was going along with this sick joke, and asked about the rest of the class. The pair of boys moved along, and Ben filled his friend in on everything he knew.

Stephanie and Jitinder were heading west. Although they had heard a couple of voices along the way, neither of them encountered anybody else for the remainder of their trip.  
"How much chain do you have there?"  
Jitinder was walking alongside Steph, both of them seeing the horizon get nearer with every step. Both students were filled with despair; they depended on one another.  
"About five metres, I think," Steph said tonelessly. She was thinking about Sam. What had happened to Natasha and Sophie? Were they even still alive? She had seen a boy's body outside the building when she left, though she didn't know who it was. To think the unthinkable was unthinkable.  
"I keep thinking about what my family would be doing right now," said Jitinder. "I wonder if my dad would be broken by this abduction of mine. He would probably still put on a brave face."  
"Just because your dad behaves like that," Steph said, trying to console her new friend, "doesn't mean he doesn't care about you. You are his son, after all."  
"Second son," Jitinder said. "I'm the youngest, so supposedly the stupider of the two. I'm a spare."  
Steph paused to brush her shoes on the grass; they had trampled through some boggy marshland about twenty minutes beforehand.  
"Think about it, though," she said. "Imagine how your family will behave, knowing you're dead. That's love. Though he may not be affectionate, it doesn't mean he doesn't care for you. Quit being so emo."  
Jitinder looked at Steph, stunned by what she had just called him, and suddenly burst out laughing. She joined him; laughter seemed to be the most effective way to rebel against this Program.  
"As for me," she said a few minutes later, "I'm getting the impression that I've wasted my life. I would sit about in libraries all the time because it was easier than engaging in conversation with people. No wonder everyone thought I was a freak."  
"I never thought you were a freak," Jitinder interjected. Steph raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, maybe just a little. But at any rate, you aren't a bad person. I hardly spoke to you, and I regret that now, because... you're okay."  
Steph felt warmed, but remained persistent. "No, it was me who should have made more of an effort to socialise with people. I just..."  
"Just what?"  
"I wouldn't speak to people that much because I always had the feeling that I had nothing worthwhile to say to anyone, and didn't join in with other people's conversations in case I annoyed them."  
Jitinder got the impression that she had wanted to say this for a long time. He decided to reciprocate.  
"Do you mean you felt awkward in social situations?"  
"Yes."  
"I used to, too, but now what I generally find is that people don't really mind what you say to them, so long as you say something. Is this place okay, do you think?" The pair of them stopped by a tree, the sea nearby; Steph nodded at Jitinder's query. "Yeah, people just appreciate you talking to them, and things grow in that way."  
Steph did see his point, and was grateful for his saying so, but she knew it was too late for her to act upon this advice. Here she was, wrapping her chain around a thick bough of the tree, with her friend looking on. During their walk in the past forty-five minutes, the pair of them had swapped so many details about their lives, it was like they had been friends for years. She wondered what it would have been like had they befriended one another at an earlier stage in their education, rather than making judgements upon one another.  
"I'm scared," Jitinder confessed, as he helped fasten the two ends of the chain into slipknots. "I never thought it would come to this."  
"How were you supposed to think it would come to this?" Steph said sardonically. "This situation is unthinkable."  
The two of them looked down. The tree they were by was positioned perfectly. There was a cliff in the near-distance, but judging by the slight changes in atmospheric pressure, it was not particularly high. This tree seemed to have a sturdy branch that stretched over some earth that fell away from the base of the trunk, its roots sticking out and draping downward.  
"Are you sure you want to do this, Steph?"  
Stephanie said nothing. She was picturing Samantha's face. She had seen its state when she left the room. The girl was lying on the floor, its eyes half-open, a stunned expression on its face. Steph had noticed that, even though her clothes were stained in blood, the school crest on Sam's jumper was unbloodied. Steph was dimly aware of the fact her classmate had been gripping her school jumper at the point of death, as if to brace herself for the impact. The crest of White Hill School was as clear in her mind as the face of their deceased friend.  
"I am sure."  
She reached out across the overhang for one of the nooses. She stuck her neck out and slipped it through. Jitinder's dexterity with the chains had been remarkable. He too was putting his neck through the other hole, though his hands were trembling considerably more. In his mind, suicide was a sin. But so was murder. To do anything that supported the nature of the Program was to condone murder, and this seemed to be the lesser of the two evils.  
"Are you ready?"  
"As I'll ever be."  
The two students hugged one another, glad that the last person they would see would be each other. They took one another's wrist, wrung it in fear, and both leaped forward; their bodies kicked in protest, trying to regain their footing on the ground. But as the earth fell away from them, so did the troubles of their lives. There were a couple of faint snaps, and the bodies of the two friends hung still, their bodies rocking gently side by side. It was all over; they were free.  
_Boys #20 Singh, dead; Girls #10 Green, dead. 40 remaining._

John Trent and Robert Fraser were safe. They had both found an excellent place to hide: a ranger station in the thick woodlands on the south coast. They were in E-7, and felt safe and secure. It was warm here, too, plus they had found a tin of beans, and a few matches. Rob was sitting in a chair, playing with his shovel.  
"I should be going to bed right now," he said, his voice low.  
"It's three o'clock."  
"I know."  
"Jesus, man, and you get up at what time for work? Insomniac."  
John was cooking the beans over a paraffin stove. He had no idea exactly how long this island had been abandoned, but the essentials all seemed to work.  
"Can I have a look at your weapon, mate?" Rob asked his friend, who nodded. He got up and rummaged through the taupe bag, and found something that looked like a gun, only it couldn't be. Its barrel was too large, and it seemed to have a needle sticking out of it. He examined the bag further, and saw a number of darts and a few vials of fluid, all in a drawstring bag.  
"What is this?"  
"I'm not entirely sure," said John, "but I think it's a tranquilliser gun."  
"Sweet," he said in awe. "You know, that might be quite a good weapon, depending on how powerful the drug is."  
"True, but you have a bigger weapon than me."  
The two friends looked at one another and both saw the smut in John's comment at the same time. The pair of them snorted at the comment, and, like boys such as Rob and John do, thought immediately of their penises.  
"I want to do it," said John, settling back into his chair, "one more time before I die. The last time I did it wasn't that great, and I want to make up for it."  
John nodded in understanding. "Y'have anyone in mind?"  
Well, I was thinking about that girl with the dark hair," replied Rob dreamily. "Y'know. What's-her-name. Martina. Nice rack."  
"Yeah, yeah," agreed John, stirring the beans. "Or Melissa of course. She's fine."  
"Obviously," Rob said, smiling. "Who wouldn't? I'd also go for either Kim Small or Lucy."  
"What, God girl?" John laughed, pouring the beans onto a plate. "She's pretty, yeah, but I wouldn't go for Lucy."  
"Why not?"  
"Erm," John thought about this, but couldn't articulate a quantifiable answer. "I've heard she has this thing for you, y'know."  
"What, Lucy?" Rob's ears pricked up at this, and his brow furrowed. He knew he was quite good looking, but partly due to his constant absence, he knew nothing about this girl's crush.  
"Oh, yeah," John said, picking up a pair of spoons. "If you asked her, I'm sure she'd go for it."  
Rob said nothing. He wondered about what his friend had said. If so, he may very well try asking this girl the question. He was sure she wouldn't want to die a virgin. There was every possibility she would go to him, that away from her family and with no rules, she would readily be seduced by him. John and Rob sat in the cabin in the woods, eating beans and talking about sex for several hours further.

Alice Daniels had met up with Graham Brooke. The pair of them were in E-4, but were moving south once again. There was no real strategy between them other than to keep moving. Both of them were wondering about their futures. Alice, a diminutive girl with dark hair that curled outward in a kink at the end, was leading the way, clutching her bow and arrows. She had no idea how to use a bow, let alone how to use one against a friend. Her companion was humming to himself as a way of pacification. He was keeping his hacksaw in his bag; it wouldn't be of much use in battle. They noticed that the snow was starting to stop falling, and while it hadn't been settling very well on the muddy ground, it was certainly noticeable. Ordinarily, Alice liked the snow, but in this instance it just had face value: frozen rain.  
"Would you object to me," Alice said slowly, stopping to look at her companion in profile, "trying to find a couple of other people?"  
Graham shrugged. "I don't see why not."  
"Good. I think it's important that we try and get a bunch of people together. And no offence," she added, smiling, "but I don't think either of us would last very long by ourselves.  
The boy nodded, his eyes glazed over. There was somebody he needed to see as soon as he could. it wasn't that important, but he felt it was necessary for peace of mind.  
"I might need to find David later, actually."  
"Which one? Vales or Drake?"  
"Vales."  
"Any particular reason?"  
Graham shook his head, deciding that Alice did not need to know his motives. He looked into Alice's green eyes and smiled, comforted. She was such a friendly girl; she loved to take care of people who needed it the most. Right now, that was everybody in 11D. She was the class guardian angel, and it seemed like that she would have her work cut out, should she want to do her job.  
"It's astounding," she said. "I don't really imagine anybody killing each other, yet the situation we're in seems totally real."  
"Do you honestly think," Graham responded, his voice slightly higher than normal, "that there are some people in our group who are already murdering one another?"  
Alice shook her head, believing firmly in people's morality.  
"No, they aren't," she replied, her voice firm and confident.  
"Yes, they are," replied a faint voice from behind them.


	11. Delusions and Vendettas

Alice gasped in fright and turned to face the voice. Graham did so, too, but he held his bag in front of him, like a useless shield.  
"Who's there?" Alice pulled her torch out and shone it at where the voice was coming from. She was unnerved, unaware at how far her voice must have travelled. "Me," said the voice again. It was gruff and masculine, yet breathy at the same time. Alice's torch finally struck the man's chest, and she moved it upward. It was David Drake. He was wearing a cream-coloured coat, and appeared to be struggling to walk. Alice reacted automatically to his pain.  
"Dave!" She darted forward and as she neared him, saw his shoulder was dark and bloodied. "What happened to you? Who did that?"  
Dave seemed to find it hard to follow what she was saying. He asked her to repeat it.  
"Tom Clarke," he muttered the second time round. "Watch out for him."  
"You got lucky," Alice said after a pause, in which she examined the wound. "He only hit your shoulder."  
"I don't feel very lucky."  
"But at least you're alive," she argued. "Do you know what your weapon is?"  
"Uh..." Dave was kneeled on the ground with Alice, who was using some of her water to clean out his wound. "No. It's in the... in the bag."  
Alice looked at Graham, who promptly took the bag and started looking inside it. The girl was thinking about how she would treat the wound; though she was no doctor, she thought that the bullet might have passed through him, as there was an apparent exit wound on the other side. There wasn't much she could do for him other than wash the wound and stop the bleeding. She asked him to stay where he was and went back to pick up her personal bag. She had also been one of the pupils who missed the examination (albeit through illness), and so did not have her school bag. She did, however, have a small green handbag on her person when she had been taken, and it was a bit of luck that she had this currently. She had been ill with a cold, and so she had a packet of paper tissues in her bag. She opened it and held a couple to Dave's chest.  
"Found it," Graham called from behind Dave, holding a small can of pepper spray. "Now what?"  
"Give me your scarf," she said, looking at his neck. Graham took the long, yellow tartan-patterned thing from around his neck, and threw it at Alice, who caught it, and tied it firmly around Dave's body, holding the tissues in place.  
"There," she said with concern. "Can't do anything else now until we find somewhere where we can dress it properly. It's not sterile, but it should do for the time being."  
Dave looked at his saviour, loving her altruism. He thanked her, and the three of them rested for a couple of minutes, now aligned as a group of three.

Another group of three were sitting near the east coast. Edward Jones had found his girlfriend, Chrissie Saxon, and the two of them were on the floor, snogging each other in mutual consolation. Nearby, Katie Smethwick sat awkwardly, not knowing exactly where to put her eyes. She was close friends with Chrissie; the pair of them had met up shortly after Katie's departure and both hurried out to find Eddie. With no idea of where they were going, let alone where to find him, it was a minor miracle that they did so in just over one hour. While meeting her boyfriend comforted Chrissie, Katie was not, and sat nearby feeling awkward. Her weapon was totally useless; she had been issued a glass paperweight. It was shaped like a round crystal, and when she shone her torch into it, dozens of prisms of light sparked off in every direction. It was pretty, but useless. Quite like her friend in fact. Chrissie had looks, and her frizzy blonde hair and sexy figure were undoubtedly attractive, but it was quite apparent that in spite of her sparkle, she was a bit dim. Katie wondered how Chrissie would fare in the Battle, seeing as she was certainly too much of an indoor girl to handle herself in the tough warzone around them.  
Eddie was a bit disappointed. He had never slept with Chrissie, and knew now that he never would. The two of them were intimate, but had never crossed that line. This was unusual for Eddie, as he was not usually patient enough to control himself. His character weakness was his impulsiveness. Yet ironically it was this that won him his girl in the first place; she was being mugged by a stranger outside the school gates, and Eddie had intervened quite recklessly, getting hurt in the stomach, but successfully protecting his innocent.  
"What's the time?" Chrissie asked, pulling away slightly. Eddie flicked his wrist and told her it was about quarter past three. Katie looked at the two of them, her hands around her knees. Neither of the girls had been entirely sure what Chrissie's weapon was, but on meeting Eddie, they were told that they were smoke canisters. This was a little more comforting, knowing that Chrissie's weapon could perhaps be used in an emergency to provide either an escape route or to force a person into getting disorientated. At any rate, Eddie had received a Calico M960 9mm sub-machine gun, a powerful-looking weapon that would undoubtedly save the three of them.  
"I don't know what to think about all this," muttered Katie. "I feel a little confused. Can we honestly be expected to kill our classmates?"  
"Well, what I think is going to happen isn't that pleasant," Eddie replied. "Either we live or die. That much is already predestined. It's not as if we're going to end up slaughtering the entire class by ourselves. But I can't see any other alternatives."  
Chrissie was sitting still, thinking about their options. Eddie's hand was still in her hair; its warmth gave her an idea.  
"There is another possibility," she said to her companions. "We kill ourselves right now, before the game gets ugly."  
Eddie and Katie looked at her, horrified.  
"What the..? You can't be serious!"  
"I'm not saying it's a nicer alternative," she said, standing up. "What I am saying is that if we don't want to have the burden of committing murder upon ourselves, and we don't want to be killed by other people, then maybe we should just throw ourselves off that cliff over there!"  
She thrust her hand sideways, to indicate the nearby precipice. Both Eddie and Katie looked over there and voiced their unease.  
"If I'm honest, I don't really like the idea of killing myself any more than I do being killed by someone else," Katie said.  
"I agree with that," said Eddie, standing up as well, speaking with authoritative words that didn't match his tone. "While we're alive, I think we should make the most of it, and try to survive for as long as we possibly can."  
"Do you really think that that's possible?" called Katie from the ground.  
"Well, yeah so long as we can..." Eddie's voice trailed off, and he looked to his right. "Did you hear that?"  
Katie got herself up, and turned to face the same way her two companions were. She had heard some indistinct male voices coming from nearby. Eddie noticed that there was an unnatural silence coming from the void.  
There was a sudden flash, and a blood-curdling scream.

Ben and James had been moving east exceptionally slowly. It seemed to be taking James a very long time to believe Ben's words. If anything, the story about Samantha and the bloodbath outside the doors had somehow made him even surer that this was all a wind-up. Samantha wouldn't do anything so stupid. She would not get herself killed by that man, Jeyes, in such an idiotic way. It wasn't in her nature to lash out at people like that; she always preferred the more diplomatic routes. And the bit about the bodies, though maybe believable in the context, was another dimension of the hoax that James was not going to fall for. Saying that, he was a little confused about why this joke was going on for so many hours, and exactly how many of his classmates were in on it.  
The two boys were still in H-6, but were now nearing the coastline. There were a few shrubs scattered around, many of which emitted a strong smell of pine. Both boys had turned their torches off, and were ambling their way toward the coast; Ben hoped that Harry and Melissa would be able to find them there. Ben shuddered at the feeling of the cold sea air blowing in, and he buttoned up his coat. James decided to stop and finally see what his weapon was. He dropped his bag on the floor and examined its contents. He saw the map was attached to a length of string, so he put it around his neck. He felt the soft crust of the bread, his half-empty bottle of water, and...  
Ben was scanning the horizon. He wondered where his friends were. A dull part of his heart was assuming the worst for them. He looked at his watch, which read 03:15. Every minute he spent away from them felt like a week. He was pained to think it, but there was every chance somebody may already have taken them out. But who on earth would want to hurt Harry?  
James was flashing about a gun. It didn't look like a real gun; it was bright orange and very light in weight. James was even more puzzled. It had 'Orion' written on the side of it, but the gun itself seemed to be neither genuine nor replica, nor toy. Ben saw it and his eyes widened.  
"That's a flare gun." Ben fumbled around in his bag for the torch. He was dimly aware of voices coming from nearby. He clicked the button and shone it on the tool's orange body, which fluoresced slightly under the bright light. "Jesus, that's scary."  
"It's not real," James said confidently. "I reckon it'd just issue a few sparks, tops."  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ben hissed, but stopped as he turned his head to the right. He had heard a boy's voice.  
"Did you hear that?"  
Ben turned his torch off, and clasped his hand to his mouth, imploring James with his eyes to be quiet. His companion chuckled, and pointing the flare gun into the darkness toward the other group of voices, he squeezed the trigger.

The explosion from the end of James' gun screamed across the air before them and hit Katie square in the face. She screamed as the white-hot sparks burned into her face, destroying the skin in an instant. Her limbs flailed helplessly, but she had no control over them, as her whole brain was taken over by the torturous pain that was killing her. Chrissie and Eddie screamed at her.  
"Katie!"  
"RUN!" Ben was tugging on James' arm, desperate to get away from the scene. James was staring at the squealing white firework, as it fell to the ground, along with the body mass it was illuminating. He was being pulled backward, away from the screaming voices, but he couldn't take his eyes off the girl. Ben gave up and started to run by himself. Nearby, Eddie had dived to the ground and pulled out the torch; he shone it into the darkness, in the hope of verifying the identities of the assailants he saw momentarily when the flare first issued from the gun. The light fell across a stunned face with glasses and ginger hair. James Aldridge. The bastard. There was a rage burning deep within him now, his skin pricking as much from anger as from the heat of the flare: he wanted vengeance. The torchlight seemed to bring James back to his senses slightly, as he picked up his bags and hurried after Ben. By the time Eddie had pulled out his machine gun and started firing rounds into the darkness, the two attackers had already gone.  
Chrissie was trying to help her friend, but didn't know how to; the flare was still sparkling, still burrowed into Katie's face, and the heat was keeping Chrissie at bay. As Eddie's gunshots filled the air, Chrissie squealed and dived to the ground, her hands over her head. When she braved looking up again, the scene was dark and quiet once more.  
_Girls #22 Smethwick, dead. 39 remaining._  
Chrissie began to sob at her friend's feet. Eddie returned by her side, the gun limply by his side. He put it down and hugged her. The couple rocked slowly from side to side, lost for words at the demise of their companion. Neither of them could see her face properly in the darkness, but due to what had just happened to her, neither really wanted to. Instead, their imaginations made all sorts of horrible constructions, each with varying degrees of accuracy.  
"I can't believe that just happened," Chrissie said, burrowing into her boyfriend's chest. "I can't believe she's gone. How could he do that?"  
"I don't know," said Eddie, looking up to avoid seeing the body, but instead getting a nose full of the smell of burnt flesh. "I really don't know."  
"Who was it?" she whispered. "I saw two people."  
"I don't know who the one was," Eddie began, his heart filling with hatred once again, "but I certainly saw James."  
"James..." Chrissie gulped back her tears, her boyfriend confirming what she thought she had seen. "Do you really think he could have done this?"  
"I saw what I saw," came the reply. "He's a killer."  
Neither of the two spoke for a few moments. Then Chrissie looked over her partner's shoulder, into the black.  
"How dare he," she uttered from between bared teeth. "He killed Katie. HE KILLED KATIE!"  
She screamed and scrambled to her feet, screaming profanities into the darkness. Eddie ran to her side, alarmed.  
"I want him to pay," she said finally. "I want him to suffer, the way he made Katie suffer."  
Eddie said nothing. He was interpreting Chrissie's words. Something had changed inside of her, a transformation that scared him slightly.  
"Are you saying that you want revenge for Katie?"  
"Yes, I am."  
"Then let me help you."  
Eddie snatched his bag, gun and torch, and wheeled to face Chrissie. She picked up her bag, the smoke canisters clinking inside. But as grabbed the greyish bag, her eyes fell on Katie's bag once more. She turned to face the corpse, the remnants of its carbonised face still covered in shadow. Her mood shifted again.  
"Go ahead," Chrissie whispered. "Go ahead of me, Eddie. I need some time alone. I need to get my head round this. Please leave."  
Eddie said nothing, puzzled, but looked at his girlfriend and obeyed her request like a soldier. He turned and left, leaving Chrissie with nobody to talk to but her dead friend.

Harry and Melissa had veered slightly off their original trajectory, and were now heading on a more northerly route. They did not have a clue about where they were any more, nor did they know anything about the events that had unfolded thirty minutes before, surrounding Katie's death.  
The two of them had run out of small talk. Melissa now just wanted to find the boys out of sheer comfort; she felt particularly vulnerable walking without weapons. Harry's mind was on Ben. What would he do if he survived, but Ben died? How would he be able to go through life, knowing that he was incapable of stopping his friend from dying? They had known each other all their lives. Their mothers had been to school together and their fathers (when Harry's father was still around) were old friends with one another, too. He could not remember a life before Benjamin Portwood, nor could he imagine a life after him. They had always been there, side by side, and he had always assumed it would stay that way, as well.  
Melissa was guiding the pair of them with her map and compass, but she seemed to have lost her bearings slightly; she thought they were heading to H-6, but in truth they were much closer to H-4 now. Just as she was wondering how far off-route they were, and whether or not they should turn back, they heard footsteps running towards them. Harry looked pale. Not already; it was too soon! They were going to die. Someone had spotted them, and was about to kill them. 'Brace yourself', he thought, as the person came into view. It was Edward Jones, but he seemed to have changed. He was carrying a machine gun of some sort, and had a wild look in his eyes, a look that made the whites appear to be bulging from the sockets.  
"James Aldridge," he demanded of the couple. "Have you seen him?"  
The two students shook their heads, wondering what had happened.  
"Shit," muttered Eddie, who paid them no further attention, and ran to the north-west.  
"Wonder what that was about," murmured Harry a few minutes later, as the two of them walked further to the east. They could see the sea. The coast was coming nearer with each step. As they acknowledged it, they both became aware of two boys yelling at one another. Melissa grabbed her torch and shone it toward them, and recognised Ben's flushed face, contorted with rage.

Dave Drake's face had regained much of its colour, and after eating a few morsels of bread, he seemed slightly better. His colleagues were glad that he was still alert, and the three of them continued to amble about in the middle of the island. They were walking east, trying to find somewhere to redress Dave's injuries, when they noticed somebody calling their names. Graham recognised the voice first, and wandered over cautiously to see Dominic Thomas, who looked fearful.  
"How are you guys?" Dominic asked the troupe. Dave moaned in reply. Dominic looked concerned.  
"What happened to his shoulder?"  
"Little Tom happened to my shoulder," grumbled Dave. "Keep an eye out for him."  
"No need: he's dead already." Dominic said this with a hurried tone that was so unlike his usual thoughtful dynamics. "I saw him as I left the building. Which means that someone else must've killed him."  
"Dominic," said Alice, interjecting here because she was unsure about where the line of conversation was going, and she was worried for their safety. "Have you got a weapon?"  
"Of course," he said, again with no tone. "But it's not a good one. It's a breadknife. Not the sharpest one I've ever seen, at that. Why?"  
"It doesn't matter really," she replied. I'm just worried about our safety. I wondered if you would be willing to stay with us for a bit."  
"Well, I might as well," said Dominic, his stocky features moving toward his classmates. "But I have a message from Francis if you're interested. He and Steve are going to try and round up a few of the class, people who refuse to fight, and they're going to shack up together. If you want to find them, they're going to be in the docks until six o'clock, then they're heading over to the lighthouse in the west."  
"Sounds a bit fishy to me," muttered Dave, who was now suspicious of everybody. "Are you sure their motivations are legit?"  
"Can you seriously imagine someone like Steve wanting to kill someone?"  
"Can you imagine someone like Francis not wanting to kill someone?"  
"Well," Dominic began with an upturned nostril, understanding Dave's point but not particularly liking it. "I was with Lisa and she seemed to believe them. She went with, at any rate."  
Graham frowned. "What about you?"  
"I wasn't so sure. I wanted to find somebody beforehand, at any rate."  
"Who?" Graham pressed.  
"If you must know," came Dominic's reply, a little irked, "I'm looking for Kavinder."  
Graham didn't push the issue any further. He wondered whether they should start moving again. Alice, who had become the unannounced leader of the group, seemed to be thinking the same thing, and in a matter of minutes, they were all on their way once again.

"What's going on?" Melissa ran toward the two boys, Harry close behind. "Saw Eddie Jones just now; he was looking for you. What's happened?"  
Ben had been looking forward to seeing Harry and his girlfriend, but now he wished they had not come at all. He pointed at James, face twisted furiously. "Ask him! Ask him what he's done!"  
"Oh, I haven't done anything," James said, seemingly fed up with the charade. He had decided that an assortment of pyrotechnics could have created the effect he had witnessed.  
"What are you on about?" Harry asked, totally nonplussed.  
"James," Melissa asked, suddenly understanding something. "Have you killed someone?"  
"N--"  
"Yes he has!" Ben screamed over the voice of his former friend. "He killed someone! I think it was a girl. Katie. K- k- he killed Katie!"  
Both Harry and Melissa felt a pang of horror on hearing this news. James chuckled pleasantly, which seemed to enrage Ben even more. He had liked Katie. She was a really nice girl, and well liked by many of the boys. But all that was history; she was dead, dead by James' hands, and he was refusing to stand up to his crimes.  
"Are you sure she's dead?" Harry said, hoping to encourage some doubts that would calm Ben down. It seemed to have the opposite effect; Ben's rage was now towering, his voice carrying on the night air.  
"OF COURSE SHE'S DEAD!" he bellowed. "SHE TOOK A FUCKING FLARE GUN TO THE FACE! WE SAW HER FALL DEAD. SHE DIED AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"  
Ben had spun round and grabbed James. The two of them were travelling dangerously close to the cliff-top. Harry pulled his friend off James, whilst the girl milled around anxiously.  
"Benjy, Benjy..." Harry panted as he pulled his friend up. "Are you sure it wasn't an accident?"  
Again, these words seemed to exacerbate things. If it were possible, Ben's eyes would certainly have been glowing red with rage by this point.  
"Who the fuck do you think you are! Get off me, you prick!"  
Ben gave Harry a shove, and he toppled backward onto the ground.  
"Hey!" Melissa interrupted, horrified at the turn of events. "Get a grip, Ben! Calm down!"  
"Why are you always defending him? I've had enough of this," snarled the boy, whose face was now deep purple. He walked over to his abandoned bag and picked it up. He opened the zip partly, and grabbed a handle. The bag fell to the floor, revealing a large, brutal-looking flail.  
"This ends here," he growled, looking at Harry and recalling every bad trait about him. "This will end now."  
"Benjy..." Harry said, edging backward, Melissa squeezing his one arm, the frying pan grasped in the other. "Think about what you're doing. Is this the way you want it to end? This doesn't have to happen like this."  
"What is it with you and your constant need to justify means? I don't care about the means; I only want the ends."  
Melissa saw James looking at the whole situation curiously. He did not seem to fully understand the situation, which, considering he was the root of the problem, was unfortunate. She looked at Ben, who was jangling the chain of the flail menacingly. There was a gleam in his eyes, a look of madness. He was beyond reason. She diverted her eyes once more to look at James, who had an odd expression on his face. Unfortunately, Harry did not seem to realise this, his view clouded by his friendship.  
"Look, I don't know what you want," he said desperately, his hands forward defensively, "but I'm sure we can work this out."  
Ben grinned. "I don't want to know, Harry. You annoy me too much. Take this!"  
He lifted the flail and swung it with both arms directly at Harry's face. Harry ducked, stunned at his friend's violence. He heard a crack above him. Melissa had still been tagging on his arm. Her gaze diverted toward James, she had not ducked like her boyfriend, and the full swing of the flail shattered the side of her skull. She crumbled, her face bloodied and mangled. Ben howled again. He had lost all sense of civilisation; he had turned into a monster. Harry paid him no heed; he was calling his girlfriend's name.  
"Melissa! Melissa!" He felt a painful blow, and realised that Ben had brought the spiked ball of the flail down on his collarbone. It splintered beneath the flesh, Harry yelped in pain and fell back, his eyes gazing into Melissa surprised face, whose beautiful features were ruined by the blow.

Harry was re-energised.  
"MURDERER!" He screamed at Ben, who seemed to misunderstand the words.  
"That's another thing I never understood about you, Harry," Ben said, readjusting his stance. "You always take the moral high-ground. How can you pretend you're better than everyone else, when you live in shit?"  
"You evil piece of crap! Fuck you."  
"That's exactly what your mother did. And to every filthy old man who paid her dirty money to do dirty acts so she could feed her dirty, pathetic kid like you!"  
"Don't you dare talk about my mum like that." Harry's voice was shaking, his temper now also on the verge of breaking.  
"You know it's true," Ben said, seemingly enjoying the psychological warfare he was waging against his classmate. "You know she could have got a job anywhere, at any time. But she didn't, and you know why? It's because she loved it. She loved whoring herself out so people could fuck her brains out for cash!"  
"GO TO HELL!"  
In one fluid movement, Harry had leapt up, dropped his pan, and was grappling with Ben with all the force in his body. Ben staggered backward, surprised by the sudden backlash; the flail was held in place by Harry's hand. The two spun around, shifting sideways. Being slightly taller than his companion, Harry nutted Ben hard; the latter fell to the ground, his flail rolling away near the cliff edge. Ben was prepared to fight hand-to-hand; he mustered all his strength and rammed himself into Harry's stomach like a battering ram. Harry was propelled backward, and fell to his knees. He grabbed Ben's hair and shoved him to one side, forcing him to bang his head against the ground. Harry repositioned himself so he was on top of Ben, forcing his wrists against the boy's throat. He wanted Ben to die as retribution for his killing Melissa, and for destroying the most important person in his life.  
But Harry's arms were weak from the flail's blow, and Ben was able to lift himself up and put his own arms around Harry's throat. He wanted Harry to die for not wanting to understand about Katie, and for always coming out on top. The boys deadlocked, both wrestling in a stalemate. They both took steps to one side, and shunted further in that direction. Ben tried a lot of shoulder wriggling, understanding how much it was hurting Harry. Harry was pinching hard on Ben's neck, hoping that the collar would help cut the blood flowing to Ben's brain. Again, they both took another step to the side, and after a few moments of further wrestling, both boys felt the earth crumble beneath their feet and their furious eyes changing to mutual surprise, both toppled over the edge, and plummeted into the abyss.  
_Boys #16 Portwood, #21 Smith, dead.  
Girls #25 Williams, dead. 36 remaining.  
_There was silence. James stood on the top of the cliff, realising suddenly just how alone he truly was. His mouth was pursed, and he rocked from side to side, not entirely sure about what had happened. There weren't many things up here on the cliff, he thought. The frying pan was on his right, and the flail was near the edge still. There were a number of bags, and also...  
James moved over to Melissa's body. He picked up an abandoned torch and shone it into the girl's face. He hoped that this stunt would have been the end of it all, but as he looked into her face, he suddenly realised it truly was the beginning. Her face was disfigured; the force of the impact and pushed her left eye socket back into the head. The dent went upward toward her brain, with her nose barely recognisable as being anything other than a protrusion from the middle of the face. Cracks were creeping across her face, like it had been made of clay. A few chunks of muscular flesh were dislocated, exposing whiteness underneath that James realised with revulsion to be bone. The head injury was shining with red, the smell of it was clinging to Melissa's otherwise fine black hair. The smell was familiar. He had smelt this just hours before. Lindsay's blood. Lindsay had emitted a similar sickly smell when she was murdered.  
Because that's what this was. Murder. James could not deny it any further. It was all for real, and he had been stupid to think otherwise, for so long. He edged near the sheer drop, and looked down to the two bodies, lying side by side. He shone the powerful torch on Ben, and saw that he was sprawled creepily over some rocks. Over to Harry, who was on his back, eyes staring blankly into the stars. The tide would wash the two boys away in a matter of hours, and they would be lost to memory. James gave the nearby flail a good kick, too. That was something else that should vanish into history. He heard a faint thud as it hit the ground way below. James, both a killer and a survivor, returned to his bag, and fearing the impending few days, left the scene of the battle, and was soon enveloped in the blackness of the night.


	12. Dilemmas

Hope Castle was going north. She was terrified, for obvious reasons. She had seen two people already out in the field (Jennifer Milton and Catherine Harding, the former roughly an hour and a quarter before the latter), and had no desire to draw attention to herself. She had absolutely no idea where she was going, both in terms of route and of strategy. In the eyes of some of the class, she was quite smart, but a bit of a loner. She listened in classes, attended them fairly regularly, and usually got above average grades. In spite of this, she didn't socialise much, mainly due to her commitments to her family. Her family.  
Her blood chilled at the thought of what had happened to her family. What would her parents be doing right now? Her mother would be crying, there was no doubt about that, crying for lost hope, crying for Hope. What was she meant to do know other than grieve for her daughter? Mothers were allowed to do that. And what of her father? She knew her dad cried in his weaker moments from time to time, but only when he thought he was alone. Would he get the chance to do so, a a time when the whole family would be needing each other for solidarity? Most likely, he would be the one to tell Christopher, Germaine and the rest of her siblings. As she thought of little Marcus, crying, needing some care immediately but not getting it because both of his parents would be crying of their own accord, she crumpled to the ground and wept silently with despair, pained by the dilemmas that were drowning her soul.

In the barracks, Jeyes signalled to a technician to flip the frequency of the speakers. He had been listening to Hope's breathing and quiet sobbing for a few minutes, but got bored of it, and requested for it to be changed to a more interesting selection.  
But at this particular moment, there was nothing particularly remarkable happening. Disappointed, he turned away, and looked out of the window. The snow had stopped, and the moon was peeking out from behind another cloud, basking the ground in an eerie, refracted light. The snow was probably about half an inch thick in some parts, the parts that had not been disturbed by the trespassing students, delivering the will of the Program upon one another. He could make out a few of the students dead outside the door, their bodies causing irregularities in the layout of the snow; it moulded around their corpses, tinted pink slightly by spilled blood. Strictly speaking, he shouldn't go outside until the area became a danger zone, as any of the students could return and try to attack the staff, potentially killing the personnel. He had no idea how long it would be until he could go outside, as he hadn't looked at the print outs from the computers just yet.  
He twisted upon his heels and turned back into the room. The metallic wall had been opened completely, so the room was now over three times its original width. Beyond it were numerous computers, technicians and assorted soldiers, all of whom were patrolling the aisles, tearing off reams of printed paper and comparing them to one another. Jeyes watched them, with Meyer among their number, trying to spot inconsistencies or warning signs using his trained eye. The team have no way to observe what is happening exactly; they could only eavesdrop and carry out post mortems on the corpses at a later stage. Shepherd meanwhile was gazing silently at the largest screen. It was like one seen in lecture halls; large and electronic, it displayed an aerial map of the island. Upon that map, there were dots, all moving slowly in various directions, like ants. The dots came in three colours: yellow, light blue and dark red, and all had numbers upon them. Shepherd understood what these codes meant: the numbers corresponded to the individual students, the yellow dots were girls, the blue ones were boys, and the red ones were the dead. Jeyes went to the side of the soldier, and looked at the map also. To one side was a list of names, student names, forming two orderly columns. Some of the names had been extinguished; Jeyes only realised at this instant exactly how many people had already fallen to the Program, as over a quarter of the names on the board were gone. A sick part of his mind hoped that at this rate, he may be able to finish the Program in under twenty-four hours, though his experience with the game assured him this wasn't going to happen; there was often a flurry of kills at the start, then they would level off to about four or five per quarter, say.  
Several smaller screens around the room showed individual details of each of the pupils of 11D, but Jeyes wasn't looking at that. He was looking at Shepherd's expression. There was something about his face as he looked at the map. A face of pure concentration, the face of a regretful addict getting a guilty fix, the face of a person trying to solve a complex riddle, musing over the endless possibilities and likelihoods of an old, unsolved puzzle. There was a sadness to his young features, a gruff man in his early twenties, this was his first time involved with the running of a Battle Royale. Jeyes had been a little bit wary about allowing Shepherd to join in with the organisation, not believing he could hack it, but his commanding officer had nothing but praise for the youngster.  
"Sir," called out Meyer from nearby, his hand in the receiver of a telephone. "They're all ready to go."  
Jeyes nodded in acknowledgment to Meyer, and the two men moved out of the room together, and turned left down the corridor-- the opposite direction that the students had taken some four hours earlier-- and entered a smaller room, with two television monitors within it, and a few microphones, and got ready to speak to Neil Davey.

Matt Sherman was disorientated, but he didn't really care. His mind was not set on where he was walking at all; rather, his attention was split between his weapon, and a friend.  
A girl friend.  
Catherine Harding was in his class, and in the same situation as himself. Where was she now? What could he do to help her? The two of them were not going out, as such, but they were close, and both knew they had feelings for the other, but neither were brave enough to make the first move. He was worried about how she would be coping at that moment. He tried to listen out for her, but could hear nothing but heavy breathing, from the exhaustion of moving so far. The time was now gone five o'clock, by his reckoning, which meant that soon, he would be hearing the report coming over the speakers. Praying silently there would be no mention of Catherine on the lists, he trundled onward.  
There were numerous reasons why he needed to see her, all of them personal. At the same time, he knew how volatile the girl had been over the past few months, and really hoped she would be feeling strong enough to resist the demonic effects of her rage. She was a monster when in those moods; he scared her often, and while he knew she was not a threat to him, he knew that she wasn't the same person when she was in those moods.  
No, she was never the same person after Isobel.  
What frightened him most about the situation they were in at the moment was that he would almost certainly die. He reflected quietly on his class. Who could he trust with his life? Catherine, yes, without a doubt, but who else? Jitinder? Probably, but that wouldn't do him a fat load of use; Jitinder was too timid to stand up for himself, let alone anybody else. Dominic? Perhaps. He had been out with Dominic and Kavinder the other afternoon. Dominic was certainly loyal. So was Kavinder come to that, but she simply wasn't loyal to him, and probably to no-one else but herself in the given situation. He thought of one or two other people he may trust, wondering what they were doing at that time. His senses all immersed in thought, he tripped over a heavy body mass that was on the grass.

Wondering where the hell she was, Tina Syme looked down the lens of the camera with terror. She knew how she had gotten there: how two police officers had knocked on her door, how she had slipped some clothes over her nightie and clambered into the back of their car, how she had been forced out, was bound, gagged, blindfolded, and driven somewhere. The policemen had not removed the blindfold until she was seated on the wooden chair, her eyes filled with fearful tears so much she couldn't see anything, nor could she wipe them away due to being bound. There was a camera in front of her. It looked like a professional video camera, big and black, standing on a tripod aimed squarely at her head. There were men in the room, but they seemed to do nothing other than stare her down whenever she kicked up a fuss.  
Neil Davey had regained consciousness several hours ago, and was itching to find out the details surrounding his blackout. There had been a man from the government who wanted to ask him a series of questions about the incident, and thus wanted to meet with Neil as soon as possible. The teacher, eager to leave the hospital and return home, had signed his own release papers at about midnight, local time. He rang the number that had been provided, and a man came to take him home.  
He never got home. Like the woman, he was taken to a location, and sat in front of a camera. He was horrified; it was like the government were going to interrogate him as a suspect! For what seemed like an eternity, he sat there, fidgeting uncomfortably as the soldiers in opposite corners of the room stared at him inhumanely. What seemed like an eternity passed before something happened. The door of the room opened slightly, and two other men backed into the room, both of them carrying a table on casters. Upon it were a pair of standard-looking television monitors. Nonplussed, Neil watched the soldiers activate the camera before him, and then both of the monitors. Two familiar faces stared at him from two unfamiliar locations: his ex-wife was strapped to a seat like his own, squirming anxiously, and a man was on the other one, a man he knew and trusted.  
His former work colleague, Mr Jeyes.

It had taken a bit longer than she had expected, but Chrissie Saxon had finally left Katie's body. It was in a horrific state, as she had feared. The flare had indeed burned much of her friend's skin away, leaving the flesh and bone beneath black and hardened. She wanted to close Katie's eyes, but found with revulsion there was nothing to close as such; the eyes had been burnt away, partly melted by the heat of the charge, and the remnants of her eyelids were lying over the flatness.  
At any rate, she had finally given her friend the respect she deserved so much, and had hurried away to catch up with Eddie. However, having not paid attention to exactly where he had gone, she realised that after many minutes of running she was utterly lost. She spun round in a slow circle, staring off into the distance, hoping she could see a person's silhouette against the horizon or the flash of a torch, or maybe even the signal of the flare gun, so she could catch her buddy's murderer and enact her revenge. With smoke canisters? What did it matter, so long as she inflicted pain upon him? Where would the harm lie in showing him what he had done, to demonstrate how much it had hurt her. Was it really wrong to kill him? No. No it wasn't, but as the thought flowed through her mind, she realised a smoke canister was actually totally useless in a combat situation. She needed a weapon. A proper one. There was no chance of a gun, not on the ground or anything, but what about...  
Chrissie turned to return to Katie's body. One of the final things Katie had ever said was about her paperweight.  
_"This looks pretty weighty, y'know? You could knock somebody out with that."  
_Yet after a few steps, Chrissie paused, confused. Was she going back in the right direction? She was utterly disorientated. It was useless. She was lost. She would have to wait until daybreak now to find her way. She stooped and got out her map. She shone her torch ahead of her, and it flashed against the terrain of a hill. She was probably in F-5 or in G-5 at that moment, even though it was perfectly feasible she could be in H-4, too. Confused, she just found west and opted to run inland. Maybe she'd get lucky after all.

"This could be your lucky day, Tina," Jeyes said into the microphone in front of him. "We're in the process of granting you a wish."  
Tina didn't believe a word of this. She was petrified, her face had turned the colour of sour milk, and as she looked at her former husband in the other monitor, she was not comforted at all. That man always brought up bad memories for her. Bad memories and a bad class from a bad school. She had moved on, and her life was almost on course toward normality. She had opted for a career change, and now was working in the housing market. She had no idea what she would say about the room she was trapped in at that particular moment, but it certainly wouldn't be helpful. She was calmed slightly by a reassuring voice issuing from the screen. The second man, the man who seemed in charge was addressing her, saying something she could not absorb. She had never met this man, nor had he introduced himself properly. She interrupted him bravely.  
"Who are you?"  
The man looked down the lens of his camera; his eyes producing the sort of look that would follow a person around a room.  
"I'm terribly sorry," he started, not sounding sorry at all. "I didn't introduce myself, did I? You can call me Jeyes. I am a soldier for the British military, and I have recently undertaken a mission in the school you once worked: White Hill Comprehensive. I believe you know the other gentleman?"  
"Of course she knows me," growled Neil. "We were married for years."  
"Well then, I guess we can skip the introduction now." Jeyes softened his gaze, to one less hostile, but no more welcoming. "Do you remember, Tina, that time three years ago when a student in one of your history classes took your personal belongings, and in the same lesson you were stabbed in the leg with a syringe?"  
"Of course..." Tina nodded slowly, less afraid.  
"But nothing ever got done about it," interjected Davey, utterly bewildered by the reference uttered by the man who had betrayed his trust.  
"You two should have a little more faith in the education system," chuckled their captor. "Your complaints were enacted upon, but the nature of the action was slow in progress. It went right to the top, and that takes a lot of time. What we are doing about it is being executed right now."  
The two captives were still not fully understanding the message that Jeyes was saying. They threw glances at one another from their respective screens. Davey spoke first.  
"What are you talking about Jeyes?"  
"I'm talking about the Juvenile Reform Bill: Battle Royale!"  
As she heard the last two words of this exclamation, Tina's jaw fell, accompanied by a strange involuntary throat noise. She had been a teacher in history, and knew her international politics. She knew what Battle Royale meant. She had heard it all from the newspapers.

David Vales had seen the entire argument unfold before him. He had been perched in a tree, using his weapon, night-vision binoculars, with expert technique. He froze slightly when Melissa and Harry had stopped beneath his feet, but when they had run toward the cliff top, and away from him, he readjusted his position, and watched speechlessly as the events unfolded before him.  
It had now been quite some time since three of the students over there had met their demise, and David figured the coast was probably clear enough for him to investigate the scene in person. He leapt from the tree, and landed cat-like on the snowy earth, only to swear when he realised he had left his bag in the tree. It didn't take too much effort to bring it down, so with bag in hand, he crossed over to the body of the girl.  
He retched slightly at the sight of Melissa's face, and as he shone the torch into her cavernous features, his own face screwed up and he turned to look away from the macabre sight. It felt like his bowels were freezing inside him, the icy lightness of the sensation making him lose his balance and stumble on the level ground. He had liked the girl, her laughter and prettiness always cheering him up. He would even dare to go so far as to say he was attracted to her, or at least as far as his sexuality would permit. What was sadder in his view was that he had heard mention of Katie Smethwick's demise. He had liked her too, another pretty girl with whom he got on well. Certainly they were friends; some of his best memories seemed to take place at Katie's grandparents' house.  
Katie's grandparents. It suddenly dawned on David exactly what this meant; her grandparents were truly alone. It happened four years ago this month, he recalled. It had been on an icy road, her father at the wheel, her mother sat in the front, carrying a number of bags they had brought, a plethora of gifts for her brother, Alan. Katie didn't remember the crash at all. She had been in a coma for nearly eight weeks, the only survivor of the tragic accident that had robbed her of her brother and parents. Reports had revealed that there had been something wrong with the tyres, and the way they gripped the road (or, rather, failed to grip the road). Her only family had been the parents of her father, who grieving for their son, felt it was the only thing they could do to help the situation. Why send their only grand-daughter away to an orphanage? Sure, old Mrs Smethwick wasn't very mobile, but the love was there. Love that David felt whenever he visited Katie at home for whatever reason. If her grandparents disapproved of his sexuality, they never showed it; her granddad may develop an unconscious whistle, but they never complained. They wanted their charge to be happy, and that all that mattered to the old couple; the company Katie kept was irrelevant.  
It was sad. David knew it was sad that Mr and Mrs Smethwick had lost their only successor, so long after they had lost three other members of their family, just when it seemed that everything would be okay. David brought his mind forward. He had watched the girl's death from afar. It had certainly been James Aldridge who had instigated the fight. David couldn't lip-read, but he had certainly heard mention of a flare gun, at the moment when Ben was bellowing with rage at his newest companions. David had seen the two fall down the cliff. Curiosity drew his eyes toward the edge, but his survival instinct was telling him to stay away from the edge, as it was clearly unstable enough to crumble underfoot. These same instincts were also advising him to avoid James if he possibly could; his classmate had killed once, and what would stop him from doing so again, should he have extra cartridges?

"What does Battle Royale have to do with me?" Tina asked from her captive location. From an unseen place, Mr Davey wrestled awkwardly. He knew about Battle Royale too, albeit vaguely, and he did not know too much about its content other than it was bad and often involved death. Ever since he had regained consciousness in the hospital, the welfare of 11D had been playing on his mind. Slowly, he was beginning to understand how all these things were connected. He didn't like it at all. He wriggled with his binds, but his attempts were futile.  
"Well, your husband over there--"  
"Ex-husband," corrected Neil instinctively.  
"--Ex-husband and I were invigilating an exam in which practically all of that class, now 11D, were sitting. They were merged with another class who had also become unruly, though that was after you left the school. We gassed them and put them all into the Program."  
"No!" It was Tina's turn to struggle with her binds. "No, you can't do that!"  
"Too late," said Jeyes, matter-of-factly. "And of course, we had to hunt down the stragglers and get them, too."  
"Can somebody please explain to me," Neil interjected, "exactly what this... 'Battle Royale'... entails?"  
"Of course," Jeyes said, unfazed by the question that he hadn't anticipated. "In layman's terms: a class of delinquents are taken away to a remote location, each given a weapon, and made to slug it out until there's only one left standing. As it so happens, your class are doing very well, and a lot of progress has been made."  
"Progress?" Neil shouted, horrified by the euphemism. "What do you mean by that?"  
"Well, let's put it this way: you remember telling me last Friday when I came into your lesson how you were worried about that boy, Tom Clarke?" Neil nodded in affirmation, his eyes wide. "Well, he sorted out a lot of problems, got quite a bit of his anger out, but let's just say that you won't have to worry about him any more."  
"You bastard!"  
Both the captive man and woman lunged at the screens showing the evil Jeyes, forgetting their restraints momentarily. What sort of person could devastate so many families in one swoop? This was one of the things Tina hated about the Program so much, as she was forced back down by her guards, screaming incoherently at the camera.  
"It's touching that you seem so concerned about their wellbeing now," Jeyes began, adopting his mocking tone once more, "when at the time all you wanted was for the guilty parties to pay for what they had done to you. Don't deny it, please; you know perfectly well you wanted something done, and for the class to be dealt with appropriately. But now it seems you have cold feet, the pair of you. We can't be having any of that now I'm afraid."  
The man's lips thinned, then he proceeded to relate a dilemma.  
"Risky business, this Battle Royale," Jeyes said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "So many people seem to think about it in the wrong way, assuming that what they say is an idle fantasy. Well, I think we've proved this isn't so at the moment. Yet I must impress the seriousness of what you've done..."  
"What we've done?" Neil hollered, panicking. "We didn't ask you to do this!"  
"Not you personally, but the Governors at White Hill did," clarified Jeyes, unfazed. "They are the ones who seem to have talked about the Reform Bill as being a perfect solution. This isn't true; it is an emergency measure. Which is why I need to use the pair of you to impress the gravity of what they have done. They don't respect children, only adults. Which is why I need to make an example of the pair of you."

Hope cried out in pain as a heavy weight fell on top of her. She struggled and squirmed her way out from underneath it, and at the same time, it was pushing and grunting to get off her. The weight had a voice, and it was Matt Sherman. After much apologising, the two classmates untangled themselves and looked each other in the eye. It seemed like Matt had not been paying any attention to where he was going, and he stumbled on top of Hope in his state of distraction.  
"Wasn't very smart of you," Hope said, smiling, feeling totally safe in the presence of the blundering boy.  
"I know, sorry. Gahh..."  
"Are you okay?" Hope looked at Matt who seemed to be lifting pressure from his ankle. "Are you hurt?"  
"No, it's okay, I'm fine. Seriously."  
"Are you sure? It's okay; my weapon was a first-aid kit, so I may be able to... what is that?"  
She was pointing at Matt's waist, as she had seen something poking out from his belt. He smiled and tugged it free. It looked a lot like a Walkman, only larger and with more buttons. Hope freed her torch and shone it onto the device with curiosity. It had a large switch that seemed to have two modes (labelled: 'F' and 'M'), and a small LCD screen that was showing a large number '07' on its display. On the side opposite from the largest switch, the headphones Matt was wearing led off into his ears.  
"Why are you listening to a CD right now?"  
"It's not a CD player, Hope. It's my weapon," the blond-haired boy said with a voice conveying a mixture of sardonic humour and pride. "An eavesdropping device."  
"I see," Hope said, not really understanding how it might function. "How do you work it?"  
"I'm guessing it has something to do with these collars," Matt said, his voice brightening, as he was talking about gadgets and electronics. "They probably have microphones in them, or something. Anyway, you flip that switch to go between boys and girls, and then you pick the appropriate student number with those buttons there, and it tunes in like so."  
Hope understood. "In that case, you are listening to... boy number seven?" Matt nodded, as Hope looked at her map, with its names down the side. "So that'd be Rob, then? Is he talking about anything interesting?"  
"Sex."  
Hope rolled her eyes, looking skywards. Then she was struck with a thought, one she had tried to ignore for the past few hours.  
"Sam..." She turned her glance to the boy, her voice deadpan. "She's dead, isn't she?"  
Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Hope realised she didn't need to hear the answer. She looked at his collar, and distinctly recalled its cousin's bleeping as she fled the room.  
"It's okay, it doesn't matter," she lied. "I just took my stuff and ran. What was I meant to do?"  
Again, Matt said nothing. Unlike his companion, he had seen the late Samantha Carter get her throat ripped to pieces by an electronic charge. He had no way to relay this to Hope, nor did he see anything to be gained from doing so. The image filled him with revulsion, so he wasn't going to share it. Hope seemed to be looking for information, but Matt didn't know what he should be telling her.  
"Who else has died? Do you know, and does that gadget tell you anything?"  
"Why are you so curious?"  
"Don't you trust me?  
"I don't trust anyone right now," said Matt, being totally honest. "I just want to find Catherine right now."  
Hope's eyes turned quizzical once more. "Why?"  
Matt didn't answer, but the look in his eyes seemed to answer her question. She remembered the two of them, and how she had seen them draw close to one another in recent weeks. She smiled in understanding.  
"Are you sure you need to see her? What with that whole incident with her sister?"  
"That's the reason why I need to see her."  
"I see," Hope turned round and pointed behind her, roughly to the south-west. "I did meet her about fifteen minutes ago. She was going in that direction, I think."  
Matt nodded, seeing no harm in Hope's information. He stepped to one side and picked up a his bag. As he did so, he noticed a white chalk line on the floor. It resembled the type of line found on an athletics track, one that would be painted on by a school groundsman with a converted lawnmower attached to a bucket of paint. As his eyes followed it back toward his person, he saw that both he and Hope were standing on it. It was the marker signalling the boundary between two zones.  
"Where are you going now?" Matt looked at his watch, and realised that the first report would be announced in under an hour.  
"I'm probably heading this way," Hope said, her arm going in the opposite direction. "I may try and shack up with a couple of the other girls. Like Steph, Nat or Sophie."  
Matt frowned. When he left the barracks, he had seen Sophie's body dead on the ground. Feeling uncomfortable in telling Hope this, he instead opted to play dumb.  
"Well..." Matt fidgeted on the spot, keen on leaving. "I guess I'll see you around."  
"Probably not."  
"Probably not," Matt said with a sigh. "At any rate, good luck. I hope you do well."  
"Same to you, too." Hope hugged her companion goodbye, appreciating this would surely be the last time they would ever speak to one another. Both Hope and Matt untangled from each other, and with a nod of sadness, went their separate ways.

"No."  
It had been about fifteen seconds since Jeyes told the two imprisoned teachers their ultimatum. Because of the stupidity of the Governors, one of the teachers now had to die as an example. Jeyes didn't appear to be too happy with the issue, but Meyer, who was standing behind him with a menacing look upon his face, seemed to be enjoying the looks of inspired terror on their faces. Neil had been the first to regain his composure enough to speak.  
"I am afraid it has to be done," Jeyes sighed and continued his explanation. "you see, these Governors above you seemed more than willing to pass the identity of the class onto us that they couldn't understand the consequences of what they had done. It's not a game. They are too removed from the walks of school life; they only see what they want to see, and know about what reaches them through many-times relayed sources. No, the only way they can understand is if one of their teachers tells them exactly what they have done. But how can the teacher know? The teacher isn't out there on the island, fighting for survival. We could of course have replicate the situation, and stuck the two of you in a ring and kept you there until one of you is vanquished, but that is unfair. After all, it's neither of you who are the guilty parties here."  
"SO WHY DO THIS?" Tina shrieked. Jeyes had already brought up his reasons before, and was not inclined to repeat himself.  
"What you have to do is simple. I merely need one of you to request that the other be killed. You get to choose how they are killed, and when. The other person will die exactly as their opponent chose. The survivor will be driven to the loser's body, and hopefully be under no illusion that this is all a set-up. I have organised a meeting with the Governors who were on the board at the time the decision was made to pass the class over to our authorities. That meeting is three days from now. The winner will simply have to explain what has transpired between him- or herself and the defeated person, and if your explanation is satisfactory, you will be allowed to go free. Any questions?"  
Both Tina and Neil were understandably horrified by the prospects. Neither of them moved, both their eyes were fixed upon the screen of their companion, who in turn showed nothing but fear.  
"Oh, and there is one other thing I should make clear," Jeyes said, as prompted by Meyer. "There is a time limit on this decision. One day. If we don't have a decision within twenty-four hours, both of you will be executed. If that happens, I will have to phone up the Governors and cancel the meeting, so I hope you will both save me the hassle and embarrassment of doing so, okay?"  
"You're unbelievable."  
Tina spat at the screen, something that was so unlike her mannerisms, that even she was surprised. Meyer was unfazed; he was, after all, many, many miles away.  
"I will be back in about six hours to check on your progress," he said. He turned his camera off, and signalled to Meyer and another soldier to keep an eye on the two monitors in that room, upon which both Neil Davey and Tina Syme sat wide-eyed, feeling nauseous and apprehensive.

David pursed his lips, and suddenly noticed quite how dry they were. It was then that he realised there were some advantages from having seen the scene. Three bags were lying discarded around the ground. He knew what he was doing was crude and disrespectful given the circumstances, but guessed that he may as well make the most of a bad situation. David was tactless when the situation required him to be, which in his eyes seemed to be often. He opened all three extra bags and tipped their contents over the ground. He noticed with relish that two weapons fell to the ground: a switchknife and some brass knuckles.  
"What are these?" David asked himself as he shone his torch onto the weapons. Opting to take the knife (his wrists were too puny to merit the knuckles), he pocketed it, and began to put the bread and bottles of water into his own bag, flicking off grass and mud from them as he did so. The job done, he proceeded to pick up his bags and move away from the scene. David underestimated the weight of the water, and after about twenty steps or so, had to put the bag on the ground and drink one of them. He was now moved far enough away from Melissa to spread out down on the ground, and as he did so, his foot kicked the frying pan. David looked at it, and contemplated taking it. What harm could there be in doing so? It may be useful to clobber someone, should he lose the knife for whatever reason. He picked it up and inspected it. The pan was very broad, and had a firm weight behind it. He rapped the centre of it with a flick of the wrist; it reverberated with a deep 'gong' sound. David smiled wryly. He had three weapons. None of them were great, in truth, but at least he had a choice of battle tools. Deciding to spread the weight of his load over both shoulders, David re-organised the load by splitting it in half, put them into two bags, and after staring awkwardly into Melissa's bludgeoned head, made off into the darkness. His binoculars were around his neck, his knife in his pocket, his pan in his hand.

Chrissie was wandering about, hopelessly lost. All hope of finding Eddie or accosting James had left her mind, and had long been replaced with absolute terror. Her boots were getting wet in the melting snow, making her toes freeze uncomfortably. She could get frostbite at this rate. Why did she choose to wear these boots so much? They were a deep brown, and rose slightly above her ankles, from which her knee-length stripy socks rose up to meet with the hem of her school skirt, which was also moist from the snowfall. It was a really bad time to realise her boots weren't waterproof. Water was seeping through to her toes, making walking extremely painful. Chrissie was fucked, she knew it. She was unlike her boots, which in spite of their ill-suitedness for bad weather, were extremely robust and durable. Tough as new boots. Chrissie was no such thing; a weakling without status or company, she knew she wouldn't stand a chance unless she found someone to--  
BANG.  
There was a hollow-sounding thud coming from nearby, as if someone was banging on a door. It was coming from her left, so she turned to face the noise. The sky was starting to turn to lighter shades of blue as the first signs of dawn began to manifest, but even so the faces weren't quite close enough for Chrissie to distinguish them. She heard some boys' voices coming from the same spot, and hoping that one of them may be Eddie, she flashed her torch over their relief.  
There were four people there. None of them were Eddie, but as the light hit them, they were distracted from their attempt to enter a room.  
"Who's out there?" a male voice called. Horrified and afraid, Chrissie turned off her torch and backed away. At any rate, two members of that party had their torches shining in her face.  
"Chrissie!" yelled a girl's voice.  
"Keep... stay away from me!" Chrissie reached into her bag, and waved a smoke canister in front of her, at arm's length. trying to make it look menacing. "Just don't come near me, okay?"  
"Chrissie calm down; it's us," said the first boy's voice, as he turned the torch to illuminate his and Alice's features. Nonplussed, Chrissie bent her knees, ready to run if she needed to. "It's us: Graham, Alice, Dominic and Dave Drake. We're not going to hurt you."  
"How do I know that?" the blonde girl shrieked, her mind rinsed with paranoia.  
"It's Alice Daniels, for crying out loud," Dominic called lamely, hoping the girl's reputation would calm Chrissie down.  
"SO WHAT?" the girl was hollering at the top of her voice, waving her canister as menacingly as she could. "That doesn't mean anything any more! You could all be looking to kill people! I didn't think James was capable of murder, but I saw him do it!"  
This news stunned the party of four into silence. They didn't believe James could do such a thing either, but the conviction in Chrissie's voice told otherwise. But who was the victim?  
Without warning, Chrissie had pulled the pin out of the canister in her hand and hurled it toward the crowd. It landed several feet short, and started to issue smoke from its pressurised nozzle. There was a squeak of surprise, then silence. The crowd were watching as the slight wind blew the gas back away from them and back toward Chrissie. Chrissie didn't even think of moving; she hadn't thought out her plan properly, and had succumbed to hysteria. As the smoke started to fog her vision, she realised it was too late to run away; she coughed and turned to go back the way she came, but that was misting with smoke as well.  
"Chrissie? Chrissie! Are you okay?"  
They are asking for my wellbeing, she suddenly thought, her mind seemingly resolving a dilemma. Moreover, they aren't coughing. Maybe I should trust them? I have nothing to lose, after all. Slowly, she fumbled her way through the smoke, trying hard not to breathe the fumes, her eyes squinting through the white fog obscuring her senses. Holding her breath, she ambled forward blindly, and eventually walked into the wall of the building the other four students had been trying to access.  
"Ow!" she said, shaking her hand. The wooden walls of the building had given her a splinter. She shook her hand, and felt another person's palms touching her wrist. She whisked round and saw Alice peering over her shoulder inspecting the cause of Chrissie's pain.  
"It's just a splinter," Alice said. "This building should be a medical clinic according to the map, so there may be some supplies in there. We need to get in to help Dave."  
Chrissie looked and saw David standing in front of her. Illuminated by the dull refraction of light in the smoke's mass behind him, she saw he had a scarf wrapped round his shoulder, which was encrusted with dry blood.  
"How do we get in though?" The voice came from Graham, who was still out of sight. "The door's locked I think, and we can't break the window."  
"Yes we can," Chrissie said, a flash of inspiration flashing through her mind as she looked through the fog to where the boy's voice seemed to be coming from. Pointing her torch at the window, she gazed at the glass; it seemed quite thin. Striding over to the canister, she picked it up, and bashed the hissing weapon against the window's corner, which cracked in an instant. She and Dominic pushed out the glass, and Chrissie climbed gingerly though the hole, and opened the door, which was latched from the inside. Her four companions, quietly impressed by the girl's resourcefulness, piled themselves through the door, sat down, and waited for the impending morning report.


	13. Scheming Girls

Charlotte Graves was broken. The guilt of having taken a human life was eating away from her from the inside. She was heading toward the outskirts of the village at C-3, hoping she could find shelter for a while, and get her thoughts into order. She flicked a glance at her watch; the hour hand was nearing the six, meaning she had perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to go until she heard the report that would announce Tom Clarke as being among the casualties. How many other people had died? None? Everyone? A dozen or two? It was impossible to tell. The machine gun was held limply in her left hand, and Tom Clarke's Beretta 9mm handgun was holstered in her pocket, the safety catch on so it didn't blow her leg off.  
The nearest building was approaching. It seemed quite big, like a house or a small hostel of some sort. At any rate, it had two storeys and perhaps fourteen or fifteen rooms, though it was impossible to tell from the outside. She neared the building and opened the gate of the small garden at the front. She shone her torch on the door, which looked quite sturdy. This would be a perfect place to hide out, she guessed, as long as nobody disturbed her, or as long as nobody was already there. Almost immediately, as if she had tempted fate, a face peered out of one of the upstairs windows at her. Charlotte had a vague feeling she was being stared at, but then again she had been having this feeling ever since she started the Program. Certainly, though, she happened to look up at this time, and the torch hit the relief of a girl's face, which disappeared almost immediately. Had she imagined it? Could it perhaps be a ghost, the spectre of one of the students who was already dead, perhaps? It certainly looked pale and lifeless, that was for sure. Saying that, she wasn't even sure it was a girl's face she had seen. Maybe it was a boy. Maybe it was Tom, looking down at her, wondering how his executioner was faring.  
It wasn't a ghost. There were two faces in the bottom windows, and they were both pointing guns at the girl outside. Bollocks, Charlotte thought; she had ambushed herself. A window upstairs opened, and a voice shouted out:  
"Who's there? What do you want?"  
It was Emma Newton's voice. Charlotte was reassured. She trusted Emma, though not a friend, Emma could always be counted on to save the day.  
"Emma? It's Charlotte. I want somewhere to stay."  
"What weapon do you have?"  
"It's a HK MP-5KA4," Charlotte said, reading the title of the manual she found at the bottom of her bag.  
"A what?"  
"A machine gun!"  
There was a pause, and Emma's voice called at her to throw it forward, at the ground. Charlotte obeyed.  
"I don't want any trouble", she said as the door swung open and Paula MacNeill darted out and picked up the gun and ushered Charlotte inside. By now, Charlotte had deduced there were at least four people in the building already: Emma, Paula, and the two people at the windows who were still pointing guns at at the captive student. Charlotte, against her better judgement, entered the building.

He had been outside for over five hours now, but Phillip Robertson was not moving. He was sitting still, hidden in a crevice in the hillside, waiting for the dawn to approach. He couldn't do anything until then, other than to find a high place to position himself. The ledge he was positioned upon was not totally ideal, but it gave him a good vantage point should he hear anyone else approaching. He was in F-3 at the moment, but once it was a bit lighter, he would carry himself up to the summit of the hill at G-4.  
And he would be carrying his trusty sniper rifle.  
It was perhaps a little ironic that this had been the weapon assigned to Phil, for he had always been a little bit aloof from the rest of 11D. He was smarter than everyone in the class, he knew that, even when that acclaim often went to people like Emma Harris, who got the best marks in tests, or to people like Kavinder Khanum, who came in every day and did all her work on time. Those were no indicators of genuine intelligence. What did it matter about the marks and reputation? He felt what he possessed upstairs would carry him to success in this game, and to success in later life. Quite often, Phil would sit at the back of the room, write violent poetry and draw sketches of people in assorted degrees of pain and agony, the little people on his paper suffering physical torment. Sometimes, if someone were sitting next to him (which was uncommon, considering attendance rates were low, and there was always an abundance of free desks), his neighbour would look at his artwork and say something cynical. Phil would grunt in acknowledgement, and move his work further away from the nearest person, and continue with a less enthusiastic effort, and would invariably screw up the paper and throw it away at the end of the lesson. Freak.  
So many people saw him as a freak. That was their problem; they were wrong, as Phil knew he wasn't a freak at all. Sure, he would often be a little withdrawn (a gross understatement, even he couldn't deny), but what was to be expected when he was in a class full of morons? They were why he was here; they were the reason his neck was on the line. There was absolutely no way he would ever let these pricks win, even if he had to go around the island and kill every last one of them with his bare hands. To hell with morality, he would not hesitate to kill anyone. They were all guilty; he would execute them from above, like a Horseman of the Apocalypse showering arrows from the heavens, so would he smite the scumbags with a shower of bullets.  
But his friends? Yes, even somebody like Phil had some people he could call friends, even if they weren't perhaps as intimate as many other connections of friendship in the class. His mind scanned a number of names. Tom Clarke, who would often sit next to him, and chat with him when he was feeling low (I think I saw him dead, though). Ben Portwood, back in the days when students had to sit in alphabetical order, and when Fiona Powell was in the other class; Ben and Phil would often sit next to one another in class and collaborate in tests by not hiding their answers. Katie Smethwick, to whom Ben would often try to talk; causing Phil and Katie to get to know one another and to like each other by proxy. There was Jitinder Singh, who was considered a freak by most, and Steph Green, who was considered even more so, so the three of them fitted in very well together as social outcasts, even though the two other parties didn't seem to like each other that much. Yes, these were the closest people to friends he had in the class. Phil wondered how each of them were faring. He could not let his guard down; they were as much a threat as anyone today. This was a matter of survival now, and possibly the most lenient thing he was prepared to do was to shoot at this selection of friends to convince them to run. He would not run and kill people. No, his weapon compelled him to sit and wait for people to come to him, and that suited him just fine.  
For the first time in hours, Phil actually moved, opting to check his watch to see what the time was. It was nearly six o'clock. That man said the first report would happen then. He needed to find out the danger zones, in case he would be required to move. He fumbled through his bag, and pulled out the map and torch, waiting for the announcement to begin.

On cue, white noise issued from nearby, as a loudspeaker further down the hill sprang into life. It was mounted on a pole, and at its base (though Phil couldn't see from this distance), two white lines ran at right angles from one another, crossing at the mast of the post. Music began to play, and Phil looked at the base of that pole, and saw with relish there was torchlight down there.  
The torch belonged to Fiona Powell, who was walking alone in the darkness. She hadn't a clue what she was doing, nor what she would do with her weapon, a syringe, but at any rate, she recognised the music being played as being Vivaldi's concerto: _'Spring'_, or 'L_a Primavera'_ in E Major. It seemed appropriate to the impending dawn, though strangely at odds with the crisp white ground frozen underfoot. At the same time, the music was calming and soothing, yet it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She was quite an expert on classical music, she felt, and played the flute in the school band to Grade 6 standard. Music like this often filled her heart with calm, but in this instance there was nothing but fear. When Jeyes started speaking, this feeling was intensified.  
"Good morning, class 11D! The time is now six o'clock, time to rise and shine, kids." Jeyes was pacing back and forth in the control room, with a microphone in one hand and a computer printout in another. Somebody had put the two corpses into body bags, and had cleaned up the worst of Adam Garrety's vomit. Elsewhere on the island, students were stopping, listening intently to the impending name list, all of them fearing the worst for absent friends.

"Here is the list of your fallen classmates, in the order in which they died. From the top: girls number twenty-four, Lindsay Vaughan; number two, Samantha Carter; number five, Sophie Easton; number six, Julia Edwards. Boys number six, Ian Dunn; number nine, William Hutchinson; number four Thomas Clarke; number twenty, Jitinder Singh. Girls number ten, Stephanie Green; number twenty-two, Katie Smethwick; number twenty-five, Melissa Williams. Boys number sixteen, Benjamin Portwood, and finally, boys number twenty-one, Harry Smith. A total of thirteen dead. Lucky thirteen!"  
Nobody really thought it was lucky. At best, they thought it was unfortunate, and all of the class felt the impact of their dead buddies. As Jeyes read out Tom Clarke's name, Charlotte sobbed into her hands, as seen by Paula, who was bringing her a glass tumbler to pour some water into.  
"Okay! That's a big number of people dead, as you've undoubtedly noticed," Jeyes called to the island, stating the obvious. There are thirty-six of you left; eighteen boys, eighteen girls, so it's even Stevens now. I'm not at liberty to reveal who killed whom, but I suggest you don't dwell on the fallen. Right: the danger zones."  
Many of the students who froze on hearing the announcement snapped back to life and picked their pens. Fiona for one had taken out the pen and map, and was leaning against the metallic pole, waiting anxiously to mark her paper, as if she were in a game of bingo.  
"These zones are randomly chosen by the computers," Jeyes clarified, in case any of the students had forgotten in the course of events. "At eight o'clock, A-5 will become active; stay out of A-5 from 8a.m., which is two hours from now. Then at 10 o'clock, H-5 will, too. At noon, B-1 will also become a danger zone, at which time you will be hearing from me again. Stay out of those zones after those particular times, otherwise your collars will explode. If you're unsure where you are on the map, I advise you to work it out quickly. That is it; I am out. Good luck, 11D!"

Phil said nothing. The air was becoming silent once more, as the background music faded into silence, only to be replaced with the sound of a distant flock of seagulls, soaring over by the cliffs to the north. She shone his torch at the map, and looked at the thirteen names he had blotted out. People were serious. Thirteen out of forty-nine was over a quarter, he calculated. If the class were really that prepared to kill their friends, who was he to go against the tide?  
Either way, his was freed somewhat, now. He looked at the list of names once more. Ben, Jitinder, Tom, Katie and Steph had all been named among the dead. The misfits were dropping like flies already. Even though he was slightly disappointed about this, it meant that he would be able to use his weapon with more zeal, and would not have to discriminate between potential victims as much any more. He also realised he would be able to climb to the summit, as G-4 was not becoming a danger zone in the next six hours. He would climb at first light, but no sooner, as the terrain was unfamiliar and probably unsafe to climb in the dark, especially with a heavy weapon on his back. His eyes had lit up in the barracks when he first received it; it stuck out of the end of the bag, and was covered in a mass of bin liner. When he felt the weight of it, he knew that he would almost certainly love it, even if its weight and bulk impeded his mobility somewhat.

A few miles to the west, another student was pleased with the announcement of the new danger zones. Emma Harris had been formulating a plan in her mind for a few hours now, and the zones meant they wouldn't have too much trouble in applying it.  
The three girls had arrived at the building about two hours beforehand, and were trying to find a way into the building. They had found a door at the back was unlocked, so Paula and the two Emmas had entered the house. What they hadn't anticipated was that two students were already there. Martina Fennell and Lucy Shale had both shacked up there, both of whom were hiding upstairs when the door opened. They had accessed the house through the front door, having found a key in the bushes at the front. Lucy and Martina had hidden upstairs when the three intruders entered the room, and fired a warning shot downstairs. Emma Harris automatically fired a shot back up at them, and the girls squealed and requested the intruders leave. Having recognised Martina's voice, Paula identified herself and the two Emmas, and after words of apology, the group of five melded and decided to stay together.  
"The fact Charlotte's here only strengthens the matter," Emma Harris said to Paula and Martina after the morning report. "Her gun will help in the plan."  
"What plan's that then?" Martina furrowed her brow, her bayonet's pike pointing upward. "Do you know what you're doing?"  
"Naturally," Emma smiled, and flicked her hair girlishly. It was usually the other Emma who created plans, but this one was Harris' brainchild, and she was eager to tell the world.  
"Is Lucy okay upstairs?"  
"Yeah, she's fine," the other Emma said, having just entered the room. "She's upstairs, reading her weapon. It was just a graze she had on her leg."  
"Well, that's good, because we may need to move quickly."  
"Why's that?"  
"The danger zones have just been announced, and the barracks from which they're controlling all of this is still available for us to travel. I propose that we attack the barracks."  
A stunned pause filled the air, all four girls in the room looking at Emma in sheer disbelief. finally Paula spoke: "And how exactly are we going to do that?"  
"With a bit of help from the element of surprise."  
With that, the shorter Emma sat down and began to relay her plan. It sounded simple, but if it were to be effective, they would need to meet up with more students, who preferably should have guns of their own.

Like the crazy boy from the training video had be equipped with one two years ago, Lydia Fletcher also had been given a cutlass, but the novelty of holding pretend swordfights with the air had worn off a while ago, and she was dreading the situation. Right now, there was only one person she felt concerned for (other than herself) and that person was Lena, of course. Relieved that Lena hadn't been on the list, Lydia sought to find her.  
The girl was on the southernmost beach, and she was following the sand round the perimiter of the island. Lydia was plain, slightly short and rather fat. She knew that unless she could ride on Lena's coat tails for a while, her chances of winning this game would be remote. She had encountered a few people on her morning trek; the late couple, Harry and Melissa, had walked past her, but didn't see her. She had also seen Colin Nately and Adrian Masters, with whom she spoke briefly before parting. They seemed deadly, and would probably have killed her on the spot had they possessed good weapons (although Colin had been holding a bulging bin liner). Most recently, though, she had seen Steph and Jitinder, side by side, their necks broken by gravity as they dangled from a tree. Even those two had each other's company in death. Why was Lydia so alone? Would be a good idea to return to old friendships she had with Paula MacNeill, and hope Paula would be charitable enough to be a friend again?  
Moping about it was pointless, Lydia told herself. If she wanted to find Lena, she would find Lena, no questions asked. It was more than a wish, or a desire. It was an obsession. The list of names she had heard moments before reminded her just how real this so-called 'game' was. There was something reassuring about having a friend for company during hard times, Lydia contemplated, her mind returning to Paula once again. This was the hardest of the hard, without a doubt, and friends and companions were the ultimate must-have. She couldn't risk being alone. She had to find an ally.

Paula's mind was flashing back to the day before when she and Emma Newton had been organising the party. It was supposed to be a for a birthday (a girl called Beth who was in another class), but these ideas seemed to pale in comparison to the titanic mission Emma Harris was suggesting they undergo. Paula didn't know which part of the plan she liked least: tracking down classmates with good assault weapons (who could take them all out if the plan backfired), or the actual attacking of the building (as the soldiers were sure to know they were approaching, and would surely take them out with expert precision). But she kept quiet, listening to Emma prattle on about her zany idea.  
"Right, so what does everybody think?"  
"Well," Martina said, feeling she should be totally honest, "I'm not comfortable with it. It sounds like suicide to me."  
The other Emma and Paula nodded, and the shorter Emma understood her worries.  
"Well, do you suggest we split up? Perhaps some of us should go and gather allies, whilst the rest work together to make an armoury of some sort."  
"Sounds like a plan," Paula said edging backward out of the room, whilst Emma Newton fidgeted awkwardly by her side. "Shall we go and tell the others?"  
"Yeah, I think we should," replied Emma Harris. "That is unless anybody has any objections?"  
The other Emma opened her mouth to voice something, when suddenly a noise cut in, a noise that chilled her heart to the bone, a noise she had heard before and hoped she would never hear again.  
Bleep.  
Paula stopped in her tracks, and turned round to face her companions. All of them were looking at the same spot, which was at the red LED within Emma Harris' collar.  
Bleep.  
"Argh," she gargled, tugging at the necklace, trying to make it stop. "What's happening?"  
"Emma!" Emma shouted, forgetting herself.  
"The collar!"  
"Shit!"  
Bleep.  
"Whats' going on?" Emma squealed, spinning round on the spot, trying to unscrew it somehow.  
"They must have heard you," Paula said, her face deathly white. "There must be microphones in the walls or in the collars or something! They've heard everything!"  
"Shit!"  
Bleep.  
Emma ran out of the room and across the hallway her face covered in blind panic, her squeals deafening. Behind her, the other Emma, Paula and Martina were running; the three girls were dancing around their companion, offering suggestions to her to make it stop.  
"I didn't mean it," Emma said, breathing into her collar, hoping they'd feel remorse. "I didn't mean those things. I was joking, we weren't actually going to attack you lot at the barracks. Jesus, can't you take a joke?"  
Bleep bleep bleep.  
"JESUS CHRIST, CAN'T YOU TAKE A JOKE? HELP ME! SOMEBODY!"  
"EMMA! DON'T! THEY CAN'T DO THIS TO YOU!"  
"EMMA, STOP TUGGING AT IT OR IT'LL GO OFF!"  
"SHIT!"  
Bleep bleep bleep. Upstairs, Lucy Shale awoke from her nap in the most comfortable of the beds and wondered what the commotion was all about downstairs.

Lena had been awake for a few minutes now. It had been the six o'clock report that had brought her round, but she wasn't fully at her senses for a good five minutes more. Because of her drowsiness, she hadn't heard any of the names, nor the danger zones, which struck her as inconvenient. Lena never felt vulnerable; it wasn't in her nature to feel vulnerable. She stood up, and relocated her gun and bags. As she picked up her personal bag, she was struck with an idea. This was a game of survival, and there was only going to be one winner. Even though she didn't catch the names themselves, she was dimly aware of the announcer saying there had been thirteen deaths. There was a twig on the ground where she was looking at it, and she picked it up and wrote two words into the soft sand, whilst thinking of the dead:  
_SAMANTHA_ _CARTER_  
Lena looked at what she had just written and furrowed her brow. The girl's name looked up at her from the ground. Sam had always annoyed Lena more than most, as she was both bossy and soppy, and yet people always seemed to obey her without question. It was not right, and she certainly wasn't special enough to be the centre of attention all the time. Lena scowled and wrote another two words in the ground, directly beneath the first:  
_GRAHAM BROOKE_  
Moody git, she thought, as he also looked at her from the sand. What cause did he ever have to be depressed? What had been so bad in his life that he had to be prescribed antidepressants? He was an attention-seeker, thought Lena. Nothing more and nothing less. She remembered a few occasions in which he had been so angry he had to be removed from school, and picked up by his embarrassed and stern-looking mother. He was an attention-seeker, which made Lena decide on a third name:  
_CATHERINE HARDING_  
Moaning little drama queen. There was that thing about her sister a few months ago, but why the hell couldn't she snap out of it? Maybe it was time someone made her do so. Perhaps Lena would pay her a visit and see whether Catherine could be made to stop pitying herself.  
_KIMBERLY SMALL_  
Jesus Christ, this girl was even more of an attention seeker. At least the ones before her on this list Lena was writing had reasons for drawing attention to themselves. Kim had none. She was of above-average intelligence, but not enough to be recognised as a brainbox. She was talented, her willing to start up the art club had proven testimony to this. So why the hell did she see it as being appropriate to be such a cow? Disrupting lessons, waging a one-woman war against the system, what good was it for when you're a comfortable, middle-class girl with everything ahead of you?  
Her temper rising, Lena's blood boiled as she sat with the stick and carved a number of other names into the ground.

Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep...  
The collar seemed to be ringing out louder and higher, its warning alarm going on for an eternity. Emma had tried to detach it, but the seal at the back could not be taken apart by herself, and certainly none of her friends were going to go near her, so she was left with an ugly-looking rash from where her fingernails had dug into her skin. She had started to cry. She was crying because she was frightened, and in spite of the fact that just minutes before she had been planning an assault on the system, she feared death. Death was inevitable; she had perhaps under a minute left to live, then she would pass away violently, succumbing to the electric charge from the collar's pads. But as the collar turned into a continuous droning sound, a voice called from above.  
"What's going on down there?"  
Lucy was at the top of the stairs, gazing downward at the scene. She could hear the beeping, but it wasn't until Emma had turned round and looked that she realised what was going on.  
"Oh, my..." Lucy breathed, her voice trailing off, as she looked down at the sorry sight of the girl. Emma saw a ray of hope; she hadn't been abandoned yet. She put her hand on the bottom, of the banisters, and called up.  
"Lucy," Emma's voice was hoarse from all of the shouting. "Will you help me?"  
Lucy said nothing. She didn't even dare move, in case anything happened to her. It seemed that the girl at the bottom of the stairs wasn't going to wait for an answer; Emma had begun to move up the flight of stairs, perhaps hoping Lucy could ask for divine intervention or something miraculous.  
"You can end this," Emma said, an insane grin on her face, her voice partly drowned out by the whirring of the collar, and the whining from the other onlookers. "You can stop this now, Lucy. Need you to be able to-"  
Emma's neck was ripped open.  
In a second that lasted for an eternity, Emma's eyes focused on Lucy, then unfocused as a pulse caused her sight to blur, and her whole upper body to tingle. She fell backward, her head hitting the bannisters halfway down. It knocked against the rail a few times as the girl clung to consciousness for as long as she could. Her heart corrupted, her mouth frothed, and Emma toppled backward completely and slid down the remaining stairs, her brain shutting down for the final time.  
"EMMA!" The four girls called Emma's name, only to be greeted with a fixed look of shock from the body. Lucy tried to work out how to get downstairs without stepping in the blood, but it was impossible, as at least five of the steps had been dyed red. She gripped her weapon, a book (more precisely, Inferno by Dante), and squeezed it for reassurance as she navigated the causeway. She failed, slipped on the blood, and skidded down the bottom few steps, kicking Emma's corpse in the thigh. Lucy lifted herself up hurriedly, and after making the sign of the cross over Emma's body by means of an apology, went over to the other girls to hug them all.  
For a few moments, none of the four spoke; words had completely left them. But Martina couldn't even bring herself to think about the body. Instead, she was thinking about the plan to attack the barracks. It was presumably off, that much was sure. But what off the fighting ideal that Emma had treasured? The four girls had three guns between them, and they could surely stay until the end. Four girls? Something was missing. Martina broke away from the other girls, taking in each of their faces in turn.  
"Where's Charlotte?" she asked, noticing the other girl had been absent throughout the whole situation.  
"She's in the other room," Paula mumbled, her eyes red. "I gave her a drink about five minutes ago."  
It seemed that the gaggle of girls had had the same idea at once: they had to tell Charlotte the latest disaster to strike. Yet it would be the four girls themselves who would be feeling shock and horror as they opened the door, and saw Charlotte slumped dead in her chair, both of her wrists slit. The girls huddled round the body of the girl with blonde plaits, and although Martina felt obliged to try and revive her, the others saw that Charlotte was undoubtedly gone as well.  
_Girls #9 Graves, #12 Harris; dead. 34 remaining._

Lydia was more inland now than she had been, even though she was still on the beach. Rather, she was ambling through the scrubland that parted the sand from the grass bank. She came across a cavern, which was small and set back from the beachfront. Her torch was shining straight at it, the sky now a royal blue. Dawn was approaching the island, and Lydia was approaching the cave. Glancing back at her map, she assumed she must be by the inlet at B-8, as the beach seemed to peter off nearby. She was as far away from the upcoming danger zones as was physically possible, and as she considered hiding in the cave for a few minutes, her torch came to rest on someone's back: a tall girl with black hair who was already in the cave. It was Lena.  
"Lena!" Lydia called up the beach, hoping to get the other girl's attention, but the sound of the tide was probably carrying her voice away. She hurried nearer the cave and called out once more. Lena caught the sound of her name and looked over her shoulder. Someone who looked like Lydia was running toward her brandishing a sword of some kind. Not thinking twice, Lena picked up her gun and pointed it straight at Lydia's head.  
The shorter of the girls froze in terror. Why was Lena doing this? I'm not a threat to you, damn it, I just wanted to find you.  
"You gonna kill me with that gun, Lena?" Lydia was panicked and it showed in her voice.  
"Depends," Lena said, her voice steady and breathy. "Are you gonna kill me with that cutlass?"  
"Of course not," Lydia breathed, making a point of surrendering; her weapon being useless at this range. "I just was looking for you, and here you are."  
Lena shone her torch at Lydia's face, and took in its details. She was as ugly as ever; that hadn't changed, plus there were beads of sweat on her brow. She must be cold, having walked so far in the chill, Lena thought. She neared the girl so they were in talking distance of one another, but still far enough away so Lydia couldn't change her mind a lunge forward with the blade.  
"Why were you looking for me, Lydia?"  
"You can probably guess, Lena, but you're probably the only person left on this island who I still trust."  
Lena was taken aback, reminded of the fact that a certain number of the class were already dead.  
"Thirteen people are already dead, aren't they? Who? I didn't hear the report."  
"Erm," Lydia had heard the report, but under the current pressure she was incapable of recalling any of the names announced over the speaker. "I saw Julia dead just outside the exit of those barracks at the start, and then Jitinder and Steph had committed suicide together. Can't remember everyone, though. I'll check the map."  
But Lena stuck her hand up to stop her friend and asked for clarification of something. "Steph and Jitinder committed suicide together? Are you sure?"  
"Yeah, they hung themselves from a tree using a length of chain."  
"Wow, I thought they hated each other."  
"Lena," Lydia looked at her friend anxiously, who still hadn't relaxed the grip on the gun. "Just now when you asked if I was going to kill you with this cutlass, and I said no? Well, you never answered my question. You're not gonna kill me are you, huh?"  
Lena smiled mysteriously at Lydia.

"Charlotte! Charlotte, wake up! PLEASE!"  
"It's too late, Martina."  
"No! It can't be! Get off me, Paula!"  
"Please, Martina; let go of her."  
"SHE CAN'T BE DEAD! SHE'S MY FRIEND!"  
"Don't do this, Martina."  
"She was... she was such a great person..."  
Martina's voice trailed off weakly as she held Charlotte in her arms. Her jumper was getting soaked with blood, but she didn't care. Why would Charlotte do such a thing? It's totally unfair. From one side, Lucy looked at the corpse and how it had such a pained look on its face. She had been snoozing when the sixth girl had arrived at the house, but was disturbed by Emma Newton's shouting in the adjacent room, demanding the visitor to drop her gun. She looked at Emma now and saw there were silent tears running down her long face. There was something primitive in those eyes, something ancient and primeval that looked like her soul was ebbing away right there. Were they all going to become savages? Lucy was reflecting on this thought right now, as the smell of blood filled the girls' nostrils once more. The people who were running this seemed to show great pleasure in detonating these collars. Also, that boy in the video: he was totally insane; he had lost any concept of what it was to be civilised, bragging about killings and brutal deaths he head seen. Was that their fate? Were these girls going to turn against one another, be consumed by evil and eventually self-destruct, one by one? It certainly looked like the remaining Emma was halfway there, her eyes were tired and red.  
Martina wasn't hearing anything any more; she had been rendered temporarily deaf by the two emotional shocks she had just received. She was aware of a dim whining noise in the air, but didn't really pay it any heed. The floor was swimming in a puddle of red, undisturbed and growing steadily as Charlotte bled dry. Martina felt a hand on her shoulder, and identifying it as Paula's, stood up and hugged her. The former panic was issuing itself as sadness now, as Lucy and Emma Newton looked at each other awkwardly.  
Martina's eyes fell on the bottom shelf in the room, and saw the abandoned razor blades and a few of the water bottles the girls had put down for safekeeping. It was at this point Martina's mind changed to suspicion, and she broke away from her comforter, and examined the bloodied blades carefully.

"Oh, God."  
Lena had greeted Lydia's question with silence, and suddenly it became obvious to the girl what this implied: Lena would kill her after all. Wide-eyed, Lydia threw her personal bag at her friend and ran as fast up the beach as she could. Lena fired a shot after her, and Lydia tripped to the ground.  
She was alive, but at any moment, the girl with the gun would be squeezing the trigger once more, and would not miss. Lena repositioned herself and pointed the gun at her friend's squirming feet and fired another shot; the sand exploded in a dusty fountain that landed on Lydia's clothes.  
"I'm not going to kill you, Lydia," Lena said, moving closer still. "But understand that I will not hesitate in doing so if I have to in the end. I wouldn't expect you to do anything different. After all, survival is key."  
"What... what do you want from me?" Lydia was panicked as Lena approached her and kicked the abandoned cutlass to one side, smiling all the time.  
"I want you to do make me happy," Lena said, her proud face sphinx-like with mystery. "I want you to run an errand for me. Stand up."  
Not daring to disobey, Lydia scrambled to her feet. It was like the olden days once again, when Lena and a number of others had picked on her for being fat and stupid. Only one other girl had stood by her at that time, and that girl was nowhere to be seen right now. Lydia was alone, and was being picked on once more, forced into doing something against her will. She hoped it wouldn't be anything too dreadful as the two of them made their way to the cave again.  
Lena pointed to a list of names in the ground. There were seven names drawn into the sand, all names of 11D students.  
"I want you to do me a favour," Lena asked simply, pushing the gun into the nape of her friend's back. I'd like you to find people on this list, and bring them to me."  
"Why?"  
Lydia looked confused as her companion breathed a chuckle, pointed the gun at the ground and fired two shots into the name, GRAHAM BROOKE. Fuck, thought Lydia. Lena has made a hit-list. She wants to kill all these people; she has an active strategy to go out and hunt people.  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," urged Lydia, again putting up her hands defensively. "You want me to help you kill these people? I'm not sure if I can do that."  
"Why not?"  
"Because, well... it's just wrong!"  
Lena sighed. She had expected this sort of response from Lydia, and she agreed on certain levels that this was indeed wrong. But people were dying already; thirteen had succumbed to the will of the Program that she knew of, so what was she meant to do if not fight for survival? After all, when in Rome...  
"I'm not expecting you to like this, but bear in mind that I could have killed you already if I wanted to. Twice in fact," she added as an afterthought. "I think you owe it to me to try this. You won't actually need to get your hands dirty, either. And it's not as if you're doing all the work; I'll be hunting for people as well, you know. I really want you to do this for me, Lydia, because I don't want to hurt you, but if you mess this up for me and we run into one another... bang. Got it?"  
She had phrased it like a genuine question, but Lena had really put Lydia on the spot. What was she meant to do? Run away and hide until the time limit expires? That wouldn't help at all. Besides, Lena knew exactly how her mind worked, so she would probably not have any difficulty in hunting the girl down. How could she fight someone so much stronger than her, sword against gun? She felt small and helpless like a maimed chicken that has the fox's fangs in its flesh, just submitting and wanting the pain and misery to be short-lived. Lydia pointed at one of the names.  
"You can forget about that one," she said, indicating: SAMANTHA CARTER. "She had her collar detonated shortly after you left. But the others..."  
There were six names on the ground, excluding Sam's (which was now defunct): Graham, Catherine, Kimberly, David Drake, Kavinder Khanum and Lucy Shale. Half of these names were obvious to Lydia, but she didn't dare question the others.  
"I'll try."  
"Good. Let me show you the route I intend to take until twelve o'clock. It more or less follows the southern shoreline, so you should be okay. I'll be on the line that separates D- and E-7. Find me there and I'll tell you my next route. I'll draw it on your map. Memorise those names and try and bring some of them with you. Okay?"  
All Lydia could do was nod. Lena smiled, and after drawing on her friend's map, and making sure the list of names was memorised, she sent the girl on her merry way. Watching with some satisfaction as Lydia stumbled to pick up her abandoned cutlass and bags from the beach, Lena knew that the girl would never disobey her, and would probably fail in the mission and be killed.

"Did she use this to kill herself?"  
"She must have, yeah."  
Martina was looking at the razor blades that sat on the side along with someone's bread, Emma Newton's winter hat and Emma Harris' pistol. The blades were bloodied and spent, small traces of skin and flesh visible on the tips. Other than that, there was a very small puddle of blood where the fluid had run off the blade and collected on the shelf.  
Martina looked on the floor, suspicious that the ground should be so clean. Surely, if Charlotte had killed herself with these blades, there would be a trail of blood between the body and the place where she had put the tool by which she had opted to end her life? There was no evidence of this, not a splash of blood was visible anywhere between the body and the razors. Judging on how unlikely it was that Charlotte had slit her wrists and thrown them over to the shelf, Martina finally lashed out, grabbing the Taurus PT99 from alongside the razors, and pointing it at Paula.  
"You did this."  
"What are you talking about?" Paula said, caught off-guard by Martina's aggression. "I didn't make her commit suicide!"  
"You murdered her!" Martina screamed, angry at Martina's bluffing.  
"Mart, she killed herself," Lucy said gently. "It's not Paula's fault. Now, lower the gun..."  
"Was it you?" Martina said accusingly at Lucy. "No, you've been upstairs all the time since Lottie got here. Unless it was you, Emma."  
"Me, kill Lottie?" Emma said, her tone of voice wavering in the way any voice would when there's a gun pointed at it. "I don't know what you're talking about!"  
"Someone slit her wrists and put the blades on the shelf," Martina yelled, her other hand waving around at the body and the shelf accordingly, before gripping the gun again and returning its aim at Paula. "It can't have been suicide, 'cause there's no fucking blood on the floor!"  
"Mart, calm down!"  
"I AM NOT GOING TO CALM DOWN!"  
"I haven't done anything!"  
"Is that so?" Martina said, sneering at Paula's cries from behind a well of tears. "You never liked Charlotte, and you were all against us getting too many people on our side. It must have been you, you fucking killer!"  
"Stop it! Stop it, the pair of you!" Emma Newton had jumped between the two of them, trying to break the two apart. "None of this is helping! Now put the gun down, Martina, and get a grip! This is totally stupid!"  
Paula looked gratefully at her friend, but this only seemed to make Martina angrier. "You've just taken someone's life, you bitch! Don't you feel anything, huh? You're disgusting, you piece of shit! You killed Charlotte!"  
"NO I NEVER!"  
"Martina," Lucy said from the side, trying an authoritative voice that didn't suit her. "I can see what you're saying, and that it does look like foul play, but I don't think you should be fingering Paula without any solid, substantial evidence."  
It seemed that these words had a bit of an impact on Martina, as she looked at Lucy, apparently understanding her own irrationality for the first time since the death, when a sudden swift struggle made her panic and pull the trigger. When Lucy had distracted Martina with these words, Paula had dived forward and tried to seize the gun from Martina's grasp. The girls struggled for less than two seconds when the gun exploded once more into Paula's chest, and the girl slumped to the ground, dying.

"No!" Emma and Lucy scrambled over to their dead classmate, looking at her trembling face. Martina, horrified by what she had just done, dropped the gun, fell to her knees and gripped Paula by her school jumper.  
"Why? Why did you do this? I need to understand..."  
"I... I am..." Paula said, her mouth struggling to form the words that were still loud in her mind. "I am... I am innocent."  
"Paula? Paula, what are you saying?"  
"Just... it's not..." Paula's whispering ceased, as her faint voice disappeared altogether, her mouth miming words she was unaware that were not being spoken. Her mind felt like it was floating to unknown places, and with her last ever thoughts being of her father, she closed her mouth and smiled peacefully as the life inside her was extinguished.  
"Paula? PAULA!"  
Martina was clutching the girl's shoulders, trying to shake her back to life, but as was the case with Charlotte before her, Paula was gone, and never coming back.  
"Please, God, why are you doing this?" Lucy had one of Paula's warm hands, her eyes closed in prayer, muttering to God the only comfort she could find in this situation. "If Paula really was innocent, make sure she gets comfort in your arms. If she was not, please forgive her. Amen."  
"You know it was an accident, right?" Martina said, her eyes desperately looking into Lucy's. "You know I didn't mean it, don't you?"  
"Of course it was; you're not a killer!"  
"But I am though! I killed Paula!"  
"And I killed Charlotte."  
The girls stopped weeping and spun round in horror. Emma had stood up and taken Martina's abandoned PT99, pointing it at Lucy and Martina, whose expressions comparable to deers in the headlights of a car.  
"Yeah, it was me who did it." There was something strange about Emma's expression: she seemed almost apologetic. "I'm sorry about this."  
Martina and Lucy stood up, even more afraid now than they had been when they had been called forward to collect their weapons at the very beginning.  
"I thought I could go on and win this," Emma said, frowning down at Paula's body, a victim of her classmate's paranoia. "It was all meant to be like a big game, right? Eliminate the opposition one by one, let the numbers slowly boil away until there was only one person left standing, huh?" It sounds so easy, doesn't it, to get a game plan up."  
"You... killed Charlotte?" Martina said, seemingly still not comprehending the confession she had heard, trying to buy herself some time.  
"I had to," Emma said, sounding quite matter-of-fact about the issue. "She came in and confessed that she had killed someone already. We got her sat down, and as the morning report was announced, I poured some of my chloroform onto my hat, and put it over her face to knock her out. The razors came next, as Paula had left them up on that shelf... It seemed so easy."  
"How could you do that?" Martina said, her rage spent and replaced with a mix of fear and remorse. "Why did you have to kill Lottie like that?"  
"It wasn't fun, but it seemed to be part of my plan. I had to do it for my own sake. At the end of the day, we've all got to do these horrible things for our own sake."  
Lucy couldn't take any more; she dived behind Martina and bolted through the door and away from the room, totally forgetting about the pain in her knee. It was simple; turn as many corners, get as far away from Emma, as quickly as she could. It was as if she had taken Emma's advice to heart, and had abandoned Martina for her own sake. It was cowardly on both intellectual and moral levels, but she didn't care. Her legs took her into the kitchen, where Charlotte's machine gun lay abandoned on the table. As she picked it up, she heard a gunshot, then a thud, from the other room.  
There was a silence in the house that seemed eerie and chilling. Another death had just happened in the other room; there were only two girls left in the house now. Afraid, Lucy held the machine gun and slid behind a work surface, trying to make herself as small as possible. There was a voice calling her name from in the hallway, and through the barrier of panic, she suddenly realised the voice was tearful, and that the voice belonged to Martina.  
_Girls #15 MacNeill, #17 Newton; dead. 32 remaining._

"Lucy? Where are you? God, help me! This is wrong, please, please make it stop!"  
Lucy poked her head round the side of the work surface, trying to see Martina, but the girl was out of view. Deciding it was time to bring this chapter to an end, she tried to gather her wits and confront Martina.  
"I'm in the kitchen."  
Martina edged toward the door, but saw that the machine gun was no longer where it used to be. She called out to the room:  
"Lucy, it's okay, I'm unarmed. Please, help me."  
The tone of the girl's voice was genuinely fearful; Martina was scared, and crying like a child, clearly out of her depth. Lucy risked putting her head round the corner, and saw her comrade on the threshold, her hands gripping her black hair tightly, tears flowing freely down her face.  
"I'm so scared, Lucy. Will you help me?"  
Lucy's eyes scanned Martina's face, and saw the face of a broken young girl looking back at her. There was something unhealthy about the way she seemed to be crumbling before Lucy's very eyes, but at least it was obvious that there would be no more killings in this building. The girls hugged one another, filled with despair, not knowing which way to turn, other than out, away from the building, away from the murders and suicide that had scarred them both mentally and emotionally. It was not even ten minutes since the morning report had been announced, but already four names were ready for addition to the list.  
"Get your gun; get Emma's gun," Lucy whispered finally, breaking apart from her ally, as the two of them ran around the building, trying to salvage whatever they could from the carnage. In a matter of minutes, the two girls were loaded with heavy bags, and with uneasy looks, they stepped out into the sunless blue outdoors.


	14. Promises

"You know that I care about you?"  
"Yeah, I know."  
"Well, I promise I'm never going to hurt you. Not even for this."  
"Thanks. And I'll take care of you, as well."  
"Thank you."

Oddly enough, two couples shared almost identical dialogues to one another, both taking place roughly a quarter of an hour apart, both pairs consisting of a male and a female, and both instigated by the cruel hands of the government. The only difference was the context in which they occurred. The exchange between Catherine Harding and Matt Sherman being in grassy undergrowth, the morning sun shimmering weakly across the metal collars that enslaved them to a limited future. The dialogue between Neil Davey and Tina Syme was held at gunpoint, each party separated from the other, both however being encaged in the still blackness of the night until one sent the other to the grave. As the six o'clock report crept over the sleepy island, none of these four people were in a particularly good mood.  
Although they could not hear the report, of course, the two adults sat on their icy seats, wondering who in the class was already dead. This situation, Neil contemplated, was an unfortunate parody of the times in which he'd sat in White Hill's staff room at break- or lunchtimes. Back then, he would be relieved to be in the room, away from the terrors who made his job so unbearable. They would all be running around outside aimlessly, whilst in the comfort of the staff room, Neil would laugh off the morning lessons, bitch about absent colleagues, and make fun of the curly-haired fat kid in year seven who always seemed to get in everyone's way. Now he was alone in this awful place, forced with a disgusting dilemma that made his entrails squirm whenever he stared down the cathode tube at the woman who was avoiding his gaze.  
Tina Syme was not looking at the screens; she was keeping her head down, and trying to prepare herself psychologically for the impending tragedy. The term that could be used might be "preparing oneself for the worst", but this seemed inappropriate somehow, owing to the situation lacking any potential outcome that could be interpreted as "for the best". They were screwed. She couldn't bear to see her husband right now; it was her fault they were there now, forced to kill or be killed. And it was all for what? A reaction to some stupid prank some kid had played on her three years ago? pupils have been playing tricks on their teachers for decades, Tina mused, and none of them have ever been obliged to undergo a wholesale Darwin-esque survival battle in order to ram the point home. None of it made any sense to her. She had been sliced in the leg all those years ago, made a complaint about it, and all this way down the line they choose to dig it up by threatening to kill her or he ex-husband? What rationale was there to understand? It was a stupid, stupid, thing not to leave it be, to go back to work with her head held high, dissatisfying those who ha hurt her, and still being with the man she loved.  
For she still loved Neil. Even when she glanced him in the screen, his aching face glowed with a civilised intellect she could only wished she could have been with in more comfortable circumstances. The man was quite thin, and it seemed like he had lost quite a bit of hair since the divorce, but he still looked calm and composed, even though he must be petrified inside. Was it conceivable even now that he still loved her? It seemed so trivial on the outside, but Tina thought she would feel a lot better knowing that Neil still cared enough not to disown her to save himself. But no, why would he love you, Tina? It's your fault that he's here. It's all your fault...  
Jeyes watched the two captives with grim amusement. Neither was speaking to the other at present, but it wouldn't be long until they did, and once they begun, they would slowly turn against one another until the one breaks and sentences the other to death to end the mental torture. He had seen it all before; in one previous Battle Royale, the class' teacher and her assistant were cornered in similar circumstances; the two of them became steadily more paranoid until the teacher executed her friend and colleague in a torrent of fury. The teacher had hoped she would see her class one final time, but it transpired that there was no winner of that particular Program, and less than four days later (and almost certainly not by coincidence), the teacher apparently drunk herself into a stupor and drove her car into a tree.  
It intrigued Jeyes how adults would behave in a similar circumstance. There was no way an adult would fully understand why they themselves would be put in such circumstances, and that suited Jeyes just fine, as there was no particular reason for it. In many respects, it was a bit of a pastime, almost like a perverse version of a reality TV endurance show, one for which he was the viewer, director and architect. Naturally, he had been given permission to go ahead with the mini-project from his superiors, but it was simply an accessory, a diversion from watching the children murder one another for three days straight.  
His camera was still switched off, but he was able to watch the man and woman on their respective screens; neither of them were doing anything right now, so it was a bit on the boring side. A soldier was in the room with him, serving no purpose other than to keep track of their progress, and to inform Jeyes if something eventful was occurring. There was a knock and the door opened behind Jeyes and the soldier; Shepherd came in holding a sheet of printed paper, a look of urgency on his face.

It was whilst Shepherd was watching two marks on the largest map approach one another that he was given the printout. It was simply an analysis of the events involving the six girls who had holed themselves in within the old nursing home, and the dialogue surrounding the four deaths within. He scanned the transcript with his eyes and left wordlessly for the room where Jeyes was currently located. He didn't see the blue dot on the map which was marked "19" approach a yellow one numbered "11".  
So when Matt Sherman did see Catherine Harding, he was truly alone at that point. He called out to her, and ran in that direction. Yet as he did so, he noticed there was something in the expression on her face, something that warned him to be cautious, so he stopped about ten yards short. The look he had glimpsed in her eyes was a strange one; it looked like a mixture of sorrow, regret and desperation. She didn't say hello to him, but eyed him up and down with eyes narrowed in suspicion. Matt was a little confused.  
"Cathy? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"  
Without warning, she bounded forward with remarkable power and speed and hit Matt around the neck with something solid and sharp. He dropped to the floor, bewildered slightly by what he had just felt, and eyed the girl with shock. She cursed to herself, and pulled a black bin liner from her weapon. She unsheathed a broad sword, one with a plain handle that sat in Catherine's grip comfortably. She looked into Matt's astonished eyes with an odd expression; she seemed truly sorry, but at the same time, utterly determined to kill him.  
"Matt," Catherine said with a sweet voice, "You're a great guy. Have I told you that?"  
She stood over him with the handle in both palms, poised to bring it down on his throat sacrificially. He kicked her shin, and she grunted, pushing the sword downwards. With lightning reflexes, Matt grabbed the flat of the sword with his palms, stopping its descent momentarily. He adjusted his grip on the blade, as it was slicing through the flesh of his the harder Cathy pushed: thin slivers of red were breaking over across his palms. Catherine strained to break through his resistance, but he twisted the blade off to one side, then another, squirming on the ground like an eel. She gave one hard push and the blade slid downward.  
It slashed into the earth and became stuck in the muddy ground, the slush turned slightly pink by flecks of Matt's blood. He was in agony, but didn't care; the handles of the blade were in reach now, and he gripped tightly onto the handle, trying to pull it further into the earth. Catherine was wrenching it upward, hoping to yank it free and slash downward for a kill, but her victim was putting up a tremendous fight; the blade was stuck fast, like Excalibur in the stone. Matt's senses were heightened once more; he thought that it he could get to his personal bag, there may be something in it that could help. He packed it most mornings, especially when the weather was going to be bad and he was obliged to wear extra layers of clothing. Although the layers helped keep him warm, they often led to his immense sweating, especially on the days when he would need to hurry into school if the buses were running late, and when the weather was bad enough for the school to turn on its heating. It was probably in his bag, if only he could get to it...  
Distracted by the thoughts of his possible counter-attack, his grip had weakened on the sword, and Catherine successfully pulled it out of the ground and slashed it down on him again. He squealed; the blade had gashed the side of his chest. He contorted on the floor and Catherine looked down at him with apologetic triumph. She had won this fight. She had proven to herself that she could defend herself, even slay those close to her. Just one final swing of the blade and it would be game over for Matt. Isobel would understand why you are doing this; you're doing this for mum. Do her proud. The girl raised her weapon one final time, and received an unexpected kick in the solar plexus. She doubled up in surprise, the handle now pressing against her belly as she gripped her stomach with both hands. Matt stood up, ignoring the pain over his chest. The bag was nearby; he ran over to pick it up. He put his bleeding hand inside and fumbled around, hoping he could put his hand on it. But no, Catherine was charging at him once more and he raised the bag as a shield; she ripped it apart like paper, its contents tumbling on the ground. She shrieked aggressively and swung the blade over and over. Matt dodged it repeatedly, leaping back with each turn, trying to lure her away from the bags contents, for he had seen what he wanted lying on top of a slashed exercise book. Giving the swordswoman a wide berth, he returned to the pile of possessions, and picked up the can of deodorant. He shook it up, knowing he would have to time this absolutely perfectly. Catherine eyed the boy, seemingly livid he was defying her by still being alive, like a matador baiting a bull. He didn't have a gun, it would seem, or else he would have used it by now. No, he would be an easy target.  
She hurtled forward, ready to slam the sword through his body when, at the last second, Matt lunged forward to intercept her hand with his, brought the aerosol squarely into his attacker's face, and sprayed with gusto. Catherine stumbled backward, nuzzling her burning eyes with both fists. It had worked; she had dropped the sword. he picked it up, looked at the injured Catherine, then advanced forward to do what he came there to do.

"So what happened exactly?"  
Jeyes was looking at Shepherd, who was trying to explain what had happened between the group of girls that had included the two Emmas.  
"From the intelligence we have, girl seventeen, Newton, overpowered girl nine, Graves, with the chloroform somehow," Shepherd explained with indifference, "and then when she was unconscious used girl fifteen MacNeill's razor blades to slice nine's wrists open. Staged suicide, essentially. It seems that she did this when she knew the other girls would be talking in the other room, discussing an attack plan against us, sir."  
Jeyes nodded. "Did the execution go well?"  
"Yessir, signs say it went without a hitch; though what happened afterwards are a bit unclear."  
Jeyes asked for elaboration on this. Shepherd explained how the four remaining girls found Charlotte's body, how Martina had apparently turned the gun on Paula, how Emma Newton seemingly confessed to the other two girls, then killed herself.  
"...but until we get over there to run a preliminary examination on the bodies, we won't know for sure."  
"Have you run a reverse-time Micro Scan on the building?"  
"Not yet," Shepherd said in response to the suggestion of a pinpoint-accurate way of locating people. "It only happened a few minutes ago, and the backups need to be archived from the satellites first."  
Jeyes nodded. "So where are the two surviving girls at the moment?"  
"Girls numbers seven and twenty left the building moments after the incident," Shepherd relayed. "They're heading south-east, I think."  
"So the building is clear?"  
"That's affirmative; no other students within that zone at all."  
"Good, well in that case, you may wish to take a ride out there with a team. Make sure you use the GPS to avoid all the students," Jeyes said, giving Shepherd permission to go out onto the island. "Do you know who was issued the sniper rifle?"  
"The sources say it was boy number seventeen, Robertson, but he's located on the other side of the island, and we shan't need to go anywhere near that location."  
"Okay then," Jeyes said eventually, turning back to the screens. "Just make sure you're all careful, okay?"  
"Roger that, sir."  
Shepherd turned and left the room with the piece of paper, and tried to arrange a small team of suitably-trained recruits to go with him. He only took the best, only taking those who looked like they weren't doing anything worthwhile at that moment. Meyer was on the phone, trying to track the whereabouts of one of the pupil's fathers, who had seemingly gone missing after being told his child was in the Program. He ignored Shepherd's request of a reverse-time Micro Scan of C-3, and instead swivelled in his stool to look at the map, upon which many of the dots were clustered together in groups, or at the very least, pairs.

Catherine's eyes were streaming, but she could make out the figure of the boy coming towards her with her sword. Fuck. She didn't have a weapon, so maybe she should run whilst she still had the chance.  
Still partly blinded, Catherine hurried as fast as she could away from Matt, who looked totally puzzled by her erratic behaviour. He looked as the girl blundered blindly away from him, and he took chase, ignoring his wounds. He was a sportsman, a sprinter on the school's athletics team, and the star fly-half in White Hill's Under-16 rugby squad. When his powerful legs started working at full speed, he was like a train, an unstoppable machine with pistons steaming ever forward. Such was the case here, and although he was wounded from his struggle, he knew he could catch up with Catherine quite quickly. The sword in his hand was weighty, so he shed its weight, making a soft thud as it hit the mud. He dashed after her, clutching his split side. His school shoes were ill-adapted for the weighty lumbering of his injured body, but his pace remained racy. She was ten metres ahead of him, then five, then three, two, one... she was in reaching distance and fatiguing. Matt bounded forward, grabbed her waist and rugby tackled her to the ground.  
"Get off me," she squealed, her eyes brimming with tears. "Please! Leggo of me!"  
But Matt kept his grip firm; the slices she had taken from his hands and side were throbbing with pain, but grip remained strong, and although she wriggled and squirmed, he would not let her go. After what must have been three minutes of resistance, Catherine stopped fighting and began crying like a baby. She couldn't shake her attacker; she was going to die here and now. She'd tried, but Matt was a better fighter. They had been friends for so long, why had they turned on one another now? It was her fault; she had instigated this fight. They had known one another for how long, what, six or even eight years? They had been in the same class at primary school.  
She remembered the upset she had felt when her family had been forced to move from Bristol, when her father had been given a promotion. She had cried for days, she knew she was never going to see her old friends ever again. But after they betrayed her, she wouldn't have wanted to anyway. Luisa and Andrea. Ever since reception class the three girls had been inseparable. They were like the Three Musketeers, just female and very young. They would play together, work together; at one point they even created their own secret code, but that was soon abandoned in the way such children's projects are. But three weeks before the move, little Catherine had been forced to tell her friends she would be moving away. At first they had been sad and upset; they tried pleading and asking Catherine to stay, but there was no way she could do anything about it. So they turned on her. It was Andrea that started it, she would whisper to Luisa in class and throw snide glances at Catherine, refusing to speak to her. Andrea ignored her for days on end, choosing to pretend her friend was invisible. Distressed, Catherine turned to Luisa for help, only to be disappointed by that girl's betrayal, as well. No, Luisa sided with Andrea, choosing to turn her nose up at Catherine, being as spiteful and rude as an nine-year-old can be.  
So it was with no friends that Catherine left Bristol and moved with her parents and sister to London. It was Early March at the time, and when she moved into her new class, they were halfway through the year. She found the hard way that kids don't like being friends with kids that stand out. Catherine had no friends, a bright red school uniform that stood out against the sea of navy blue during school assemblies, and a funny accent that made the mean girls nickname her Farmer Cathy. She would be told off by teachers in the corridor for not having the right school uniform, but would be too afraid to say anything, as the taunting of her distinct Bristolian accent taught her to keep her mouth shut at all times. The change from being a bubbly, gossipy little girl to a quiet, introverted loner was distressing to see, let alone to experience. She stopped eating properly, choosing to pick at her food instead. Her parents became distressed but they didn't know what to do, as they were adapting to their own new lives. It came down to two people to help get Catherine back on track. Her big sister was very helpful; though she was undergoing changes as well, she was in Year Six and would soon be moving to a new school anyway. It was with this in mind that Isobel Harding managed to keep her mood in control, and spent a lot of time with her younger sister Catherine appreciated this, and over those months, the two girls grew closer than the Three Musketeers had ever done. Gradually, Catherine stopped hating her home life so much; she started talking to her father again and began to understand the benefits of her new situation.  
With this in mind, she began to behave more proactively in lessons. She would start putting her hand up to answer a few questions, and busied herself with her classwork. Over the Easter break her parents bought her a new school uniform, allowing her to break away from the memories of her previous school and start afresh. She returned to school after the break and decided she would start making friends. It took some calculation on her part, but she opted to try a girl who seemed to have a number of friends in the class, but seemed relatively friendly. She apporached her one lunchtime.  
"Hello."  
"What do you want, farmer-girl?"  
"I wondered if we could be friends," Cathy said nervously, knowing what the answer was going to be.  
"Buzz off."  
The other girl's friends laughed and giggled in appreciation, and Catherine slouched off, feeling low once more. What a waste of time. But was it? A hand tapped her on the shoulder, and she twisted round, hoping it was the girl wanting to apologise. It wasn't. It was a boy, one who played football with the other boys, yet was not as boisterous and liked to work quietly from time to time.  
"Hi, Cathy," said the boy. He was blond and had pale blue eyes.  
"Hello," she sniffed in reply.  
"I heard what the girls said to you over there. That was really mean of them."  
"I know," she sniffed once more, wondering where the boy was going with this.  
"They're a bit nasty anyway. I'd be friends with you, but..."  
"Why not?"  
"Well," the boy shuffled on the spot, mumbling, "you're a girl."  
For once, Cathy laughed. "And you're a boy. Boys smell."  
"Girls are soppy."  
The two children stuck their tongues out at one another then burst into laughter. They spent much of the remainder of the lunchtime blowing raspberries at one another from across the table, but it was good-natured fun between two friends.  
"Your name's Matthew, right?"  
"Yes," he nodded exaggeratedly at the end of the break. "But everyone calls me Matt for short."

"Matt! Matt! Don't!"  
So many years down the line, and the two of them were wrestling on an island. She was still squirming, but the boy kept his grip firm around her waist. He was wondering why she was resisting him. Even though he had been gripping her for a good while now, she still seemed to fidget with zeal, making his wounds ache miserably. After a while she stopped and started sobbing hysterically. So that's why. She's just scared. Nothing grand, nothing rational, just fear, pure fear. What was he going to say to her? It was like she was the lonely girl at school once more, and he, the boy who needed to make the effort to reach out to her. He gritted his teeth and called out over the pain:  
"I'm not going to fight you, you muppet!"  
Gasps emerged from between the sobs as the words sank in.  
"Wh.. whaa--?"  
"Cathy, it's me, you daft bitch," Matt said, reiterating the point with another insult. "I have no intention of hurting you. I've been looking for you since the game began."  
She stopped struggling altogether; her legs eased up and Matt released her. Catherine shuffled back using her hands, and looked at him. He was in a sorry state, she could see. His hands were cut open, and his side...  
"Shit, I cut you!"  
She moved back toward him and gawped stupidly at the wound in his side, which was staining his jumper brown. Her sore eyes whipped around the scene to try and establish the whereabouts of her sword, and saw it lying in the distance, gleaming red in the weak morning sun. _What have I done? I've injured him? I can't believe I was so stupid to fear him! He's been my friend for so long, and I was going to kill him...  
_"It's fine," Matt said, doubting his words. "It hurts a bit, but it can't be that serious, can it?"

"I want to apologise for what's happened to you. It's all my fault."  
"No, it's not, it's nobody's fault. Least of all yours."  
"I feel so guilty about us being here."  
"You did the right thing. How were you supposed to know we were going to end up here?"  
"I still feel guilty, though."  
"Look," Davey said, looking his ex-wife in the eye. "You got stabbed and launched an official complaint about it. They said that unless you found the specific person responsible, they would not be able to act. For you, that was the end of it; case closed. If it helps, I don't hold you to blame for what's happening now."  
Tina Syme smiled faintly, shuffling uncomfortably on her seat. Deep down, she knew she had feelings for the man in the other room; they had never really died away, rather were just pushed to the back when her life became so dark. She wasn't going to say anything now, though. It was just inappropriate. Neil, though, could sense what was on her mind, and decided to take the initiative.  
"Maybe it's the wrong time to tell you this," he began, "but as I don't know how much time we have, I'll just say it. I care about you still. Do you know that?  
"Yeah, I know."  
"Well, I swear on my life that I am never going to hurt you. Ever. Especially not for this sick stunt."  
"Thanks," Syme said, knowing how she should return the promise. "And I'll take care of you, as well."  
"Thank you."  
Many miles away, the proceedings were being watched continuously by Jeyes. The two captives had only just started to speak to one another again, and he was determined not to miss a moment of it if he could. It was his entertainment, his own fly-on-the-wall show that helped distract from his monotonous, never-ceasing work. Jeyes was obliged to monitor the execution of 11D, and he was disciplined enough to do so, but this was a digression from orders, something else on which to settle his mind for a while. After all, even a man supervising the slaughter of children is entitled to a bit of fun every now and then.  
A bang at the door a few minutes later disrupted his thoughts on the teachers. Meyer wandered in, carrying a ring binder with various notes in it.  
"Sir, just letting you know that Shepherd has reached the manor with the dead girls," he said. "He and his crew are verifying the identity of the students as we speak."  
"Already?" Jeyes was surprised they had gotten there so quickly.  
"Well, they took one of the off-road vehicles, and they didn't encounter any resistance along the way. There were virtually no students to avoid en route, so they just went as the crow flies."  
"Okay... did you run the MicroScan for that house?"  
"I'm requesting that data now," Meyer lied. He had ignored the request, but felt a guilty pang as he realised the order came from his superior. "Though looking at the data, it does appear that girl seventeen couldn't hack it, and shot herself."  
"I see. So where do we stand with the pupils?"  
"The two surviving girls have left the scene. Two other students had a struggle a few minutes ago: girl eleven and boy nineteen. I think the boy, Sherman, is wounded." Meyer recited these observations without even looking at the data. It was a gift of his to remember information on sight. Student numbers alone wouldn't have been sufficient information for most people, but for Meyer, Jeyes and Shepherd, it was adequate, as they had spent many years working by these references. "No major developments with any of the others, either, sir. Boy eighteen's group are moving northwest to meet boys thirteen and fourteen, like we expected. Girl four is tending to boy five's injuries in the clinic. Lastly, boy eleven's group are moving from the docks. That's about it."  
"I see. What about our teams?"  
"Mitchell and his team are winding up for the morning," Meyer said of one of his colleagues. "Chamberlain should be here for around ten-hundred hours to relieve him. We're getting a new team in place right now, sir."  
Jeyes nodded. "Also, get Sacks and make sure he has everything he needs. I need him to start his work the minute the first danger zone comes into place at zero-eight-hundred hours."  
"Roger that, sir; he's already dealing with the two from the bunker."  
"Excellent; tell him I'll be with him shortly."  
"Sir," Meyer nodded, and assuming dismissal, left the room and went to run his errands. Jeyes heaved a sigh, and after asking a soldier to keep an eye on the developments between the two captured adults, also left to examine exactly what was happening between boy nineteen and girl eleven.

Who at that stage were no longer resisting one another. Catherine was still very apologetic about her attack and was trying to dress Matt's injuries somehow.  
"Urgh, that's not nice."  
"Do you mind?" Matt was trying not to pay too much heed to Catherine's words as she checked him out, but it was impossible to blot her words out completely. "D'you have to 'urgh' so much?"  
"Sorry 'bout that," Catherine murmured quickly, "but the blood's congealed as it's stuck to your clothes."  
Matt moaned. This wasn't something he wanted to hear particularly. "Just tell me one thing... do you think they're life-threatening?"  
At first, Catherine said nothing. She couldn't tell exactly, not with his wounds clotted under his clothes the way they were. Although she wasn't an expert on first-aid, it seemed a bad idea to try and pick the dried shirt from the wound, as that would mean any scabs that may have formed would be lost, breaking a blood dam as they went. At the same time, it seemed like the cut wasn't too deep, and although it had taken a nasty chunk from his side, she reckoned it could probably be safe, just as long as the wound got treated properly.  
"You're gonna be just fine," she said calmingly. "But we need to get you fixed up properly. There's a clinic on the map somewhere, so we could try going to there. Are you okay to move?"  
"Yeah," he grunted. "Just as long as we're not too quick, okay? I think I overdid myself just then..."  
Catherine helped lift him to his feet, and grunting slightly, the two students started moving. The only way Catherine could help stem Matt's bleeding was by removing her own jumper, folding it up tightly, and making him hold it in place as they moved. This was hurting him twofold, as his hands were of course also hurting from struggling with the blade of the sword. Catherine leant that sword to him, and he used it as a crutch, easing some of his weight onto the support whilst Catherine carried all of the bags.

In spite of their good intentions, neither of them seemed to have addressed the practical issue of finding the medical centre on their maps. Neither of them could, either; Matt was of course the worse for wear, whilst Catherine had loaded herself with all the bags, thereby disabling her much use of her arms. The two of them ambled slowly in the rough direction of the clinic, although their trajectory was off somewhat, and were slowly heading toward the massive hillside.  
"Shit. Hold on a moment."  
Matt backoned Catherine to a halt, and she did, curious as to why he was doing so. She knew they were probably not going in the right direction, but even so..."  
"Look up for a moment," Matt commanded to his classmate.  
She obeyed, wondering what he was going to do. He had the sword in his grasp; it wouldn't take too much effort to drive it through her, which he probably wanted to, after what she did to--  
She spluttered in surprise to what he had done. The last thing she had anticipated was that he was going to pour water on her face. She snorted the water away and began rubbing her eyes aggressively.  
"What the hell was that for?" she whined.  
"I sprayed you in the eye," Matt explained. "You hurt me, then gave me a crutch to lean on; I sprayed you in the face, so now I'm irrigating your eyes. Keep still, girl. It hurts enough as it is."  
She apologised yet again and stood still as the boy rinsed her eyes clean. When he was done, she smiled and asked him something that had been bothering her.  
"You're brilliant," she breathed into his ear. "I tried to kill you earlier, and not only've you forgiven me, but you're also helping me. Why are you being so nice?"  
Matt said nothing. He knew what the eventual endgame was going to be, even if he didn't like it. Instead he answered the question indirectly. "Do you remember when you first moved to London?"  
Cathy nodded, wondering where he was going with this. "I knew you were having a hard time with the move," he continued, "and I knew that if I tried to help you, even in the smallest way, it would make so much of a difference. Well, nothing's changed. I promised myself I would help you in the tough times back then, and I'll protect you on whatever way I can now. You know that I care about you."  
"Yeah, I do," Catherine replied.  
"Well I promise I'm never going to hurt you. Not even for this."  
"You won't?" Cathy said, feeling safer by the moment. "And I promise I'll look after you, too. I'll get your cuts treated."  
"Thank you."  
Matt leaned on his improvised crutch once more, putting pressure on the wound in his side. Catherine began to haul the bags once more, and the pair of them started moving once again, musing over their promises. Promises, as both of them knew perfectly well, were things that were often unfulfilled, or in the worst circumstances, made to be broken.


End file.
